


An Acquired Taste

by kinklock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Drinking, Humor, I should probably emphasize the Bat aspect more, M/M, Magical Realism, Misunderstandings, Pining Sherlock, Podfic Available, Sherlock's a bat, Sherlock's usual antics but as a bat, Vampire Sherlock, arguably obscure vampire mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:46:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinklock/pseuds/kinklock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Montague Street when Sherlock was forced to sate his body’s needs, he was at least able to wander about the flat as much as he pleased. </p><p>At Baker Street, it was mini-bags in a mini-fridge and bedroom confinement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Vampire, Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to falka katzensprotte who gave me the idea in the first place, and reminded me that I wanted more soft & sweet vampire (maybe) Sherlock. 
> 
> The premise is basically what if we focussed on the aspect of vampires people usually cut out, and then ignored almost everything else lol.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta team Anna and Soli, and also to everyone who pitched bat pun related titles for this fic <3
> 
> ***Update: Falka has now painted[ a Mood Board fanart for the fic ](http://katzensprotte.tumblr.com/post/140396088378/at-montague-street-when-sherlock-was-forced-to), which is, in a word, Perfect

Slipping a straw past his lips, Sherlock considered venturing out of his room and into the rest of the flat. He hated this part, and there was nothing sufficiently distracting in his room. It was always worse when he let himself go without feeding for too long.

 

He considered it, but ultimately dismissed the idea.

 

John had ducked out to Tesco Express, which only afforded Sherlock a narrow time window. Too many factors to consider for a confident estimate—John fighting with technology at the store, John attempting to find sales, John chatting up a woman in the queue. In any event, Sherlock couldn’t risk it.

 

At Montague Street when Sherlock was forced to sate his body’s needs, he was at least able to wander about the flat as much as he pleased.

 

At Baker Street, it was mini-bags in a mini-fridge and bedroom confinement.

 

The voice in his head (that was annoyingly similar to Mycroft) pointed out this was self-inflicted.

 

Rationally, Sherlock knew his current living situation was ridiculous. He didn’t need a flatmate, let alone one he had to hide his true nature from.

 

The counter argument was simply _John_. And no attempt was made at a rebuttal.

Sherlock, for whatever reason, needed John Watson to be present at all times. Sherlock had suspected it within moments of meeting him, and had fully confirmed it by the following evening when John had killed for him.

 

John hadn’t known Sherlock’s mortality was a bit more robust than that, but the gesture had been... inspiring. Sherlock had needed to keep John, right away, and had needed to be near him as much as he was able. Living together was essential, and wasn’t nearly enough. Sherlock still felt the urge to check in on John during their brief moments of separation, and he had a poor track record for resisting urges.

At least in the other form he could take, he went completely unnoticed by John.

 

Living separately would have made this even more unbearable. So, instead of checking on his spores in the kitchen, Sherlock sat on his bed and sipped. The syrupy sweetness and metallic tang were the same as always; the coldness he was still getting used to. It was never very pleasant, even if it was hot. As he drank, his nose scrunched up and his mouth rearranged itself into a moue, not unlike a child being forced to eat his vegetables.

 

The slam of a door and the pounding of feet (heavier on the left, carrying milk) up seventeen steps (creak on the fourth) confirmed he had been right to relegate himself to the bedroom.

 

Sherlock listened to John busying himself in the kitchen. He was making a show of putting away the shopping, banging items down and shelving them with vigour, even though they both always left Mrs Hudson do the rest of it in the end. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Sherlock!”

 

He was being summoned. Not in the traditional sense of course, and yet still equally as undeniable and persuasive. John had that effect on him.

 

“I got honey, so now you have to eat a bit of toast. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you threw out the one from this morning. And the day before that.” John’s further commentary on his eating habits devolved into grumbling, which not even Sherlock’s keen ears could make out.

 

While said ears had perked up at the mention of honey, he’d lost his enthusiasm by the conclusion of toast. Toast meant John had gotten the liquid honey in a squeezy bottle to put on bread, a truly inferior product.

 

“Is he even home?” John muttered, accompanied by the soft sound of feet leaving the kitchen to stick his head out into the hallway.

Which was not good. He couldn’t let John get it into his head that he was welcome to come into Sherlock’s room. If John found the bags, it likely wouldn’t strike him as odd, given Sherlock’s generally unusual habits. Finding Sherlock drinking from them however, might raise some red flags.

 

Sherlock finished the rest of the mini-bag so fast he almost choked, and tossed it before heading into the toilet through the ensuite door. The noise of him moving about was enough to hold John off, for now.

 

A check in the mirror confirmed he’d been sloppy. Sherlock wiped at his mouth, and in the process smeared the mess across his left cheek.

 

The image was arresting, even to himself. The trail across his face was dark crimson, garish against his pale skin. He looked monstrous.

On the other side of the wall, John was spreading honey on to toast for him in the kitchen.

 

The contrast brought the reality of his situation into sharp focus. For a time, Sherlock had attempted to deny, resist, and fight the inevitable conclusion he had reached. Now, he was forced to simply live in acceptance of it.

He was attached to John Watson. John was currently with him almost always, and he wanted it to continue indefinitely. John was necessary. John had to stay.

 

And, for that to be the case, John could never be allowed to see him like this.

John was attracted to danger, of course, but even he had to have limits.

“Sherlock?” John called out, again, voice lower than earlier. John had moved into the hallway, drawing closer, and Sherlock still had O negative smeared across his cheek.

Sherlock’s response was to shuffle back into his bedroom, shutting the door connected to the shared toilet behind him.

+

If their home life was difficult to navigate, concealing himself while bringing John on cases was even trickier. He had to regretfully leave John behind at times, which made John inordinately angry with him. He didn’t enjoy the fallout, but there was some information that couldn’t be acquired through on-site deduction.

His homeless network, a charming collection of stray cats, only liked to speak to him in his other form.

Sherlock had been successful in keeping John out of it regardless, even with a one-time slip up. Sherlock blamed the cats, who only accepted payment in the form of tinned fish. John had caught him mid-transaction, but had luckily misinterpreted it.

John’s face, rather than breaking into a look of dawning realization on how Sherlock had gathered intel on their suspect’s whereabouts, had softened. He looked at him differently. It was the kind of expression that Sherlock never felt deserving of, but still made him feel… good. John could look at him a certain way and his chest would heat, like drinking after he’d put the blood in the microwave first.  

He was sure John wouldn’t look at him like that again, if he knew about the blood thing.

+

Sherlock assumed that if John was annoyed about not being able to stay with Sherlock when he dashed off, surely that meant John would understand if the reverse held true, and that Sherlock liked to keep an eye on him from time to time.

John was easy to deduce and his computer passwords even easier to guess (jamesbond007, _really John_ ), but still Sherlock found his curiosity wasn’t satisfied. The combination of hating having John out of his sight and his poor impulse control had resulted in the perhaps bit not good habit of following John. Only occasionally.

When he sent John out on his own for cases, it was so easy to follow him in either form. And once Sherlock had scratched an itch, his restrictions on himself only loosened further.

Following John to the store (where he flirted in the queue). Following John to the newspaper stand (where he flirted with the other customers). Following John to work (where he flirted with the receptionist). Following John to interview a female client for a case where—surprise!—John flirted, _wretchedly_. Sherlock suspected John’s strategy was the more women he attempted to pull, the more likely he was to succeed. Quantity over quality, as far as Sherlock could tell.

Regardless, once Sherlock had gotten used to following, and watching, it had become second nature. He became spoiled, gorging himself on being near to John.

This resulted in the first incident.

Partially. The first incident was really due to John being doused with petrol ( _“Did we have to hide underneath the leaky car, Sherlock?”_ ), which then meant he needed take a shower, mid-day, when Sherlock normally had unlimited access to him.  

John had been in there for over three minutes, which had seemed excruciatingly long at the time, while Sherlock was being forced to watch steam fog the frosted glass of the ensuite toilet door. Which had been left unlocked. It was practically an invitation.

With his strengthened hearing, Sherlock could also hear the faint humming through the door, and it was surprisingly nice. John had a rather good singing voice, and Sherlock just wanted to be closer to hear him. It was simply a matter of cracking the door open on a particularly loud hum, shifting into his other form, and fluttering in.

Flinging himself onto the light fixture and hanging on by his feet, Sherlock watched the top of John’s head upside down through the crack between the shower curtain and the rail. His hair was spiked from running his hands through it while wet, and John’s humming was growing louder. He might start to sing at any moment.

Except, that came to a halt when John reached around the outer corner of the tub only to find it empty. Sherlock’s head swiveled to the sink where John’s bottle of shower gel sat, having never made it to the shower.  

“Crap,” John muttered, his arm retreating behind the curtain. Despite it being the obvious next move, one of Sherlock’s feet nearly slipped off the fixture when, without turning the shower off, John pulled the curtain back to duck out and retrieve his shower gel.

Sherlock was too high to see much beyond wet shoulders, bare chest with a slight dusting of blond hair, and water running off John’s biceps. This was, as it turned out, much more than enough, and was perhaps why his usually strong gripped feet slipped from the fixture. He stretched his foot out hoping to grab it, and when that failed, Sherlock flapped his wings, flying in a circle, with the hope of perhaps seeing a bit lower on John’s body.

However, the unfortunate side effect of moving rather than hanging was that it drew John’s attention. At the first extension of Sherlock’s wing to catch his fall, John’s head shot up. There was a short startled yell and then, ever the soldier, the body Sherlock had wanted a bit of peek at had crouched lower.

“Is that a _bloody bat_?” John’s arms were outstretched above his head, as if he expected Sherlock to fly straight at him. Rude. Sherlock continued his circles overhead with more vigour, annoyed.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s flapping faltered, causing him to dip slightly, before he realised John wasn’t speaking directly to him. John thought he was still in the flat, and that he was the culprit behind an animal getting into the toilet. Which was also very rude of him, though to John’s credit, not entirely inaccurate.

John reached for the ensuite door, pushing it further open than the crack he had created.  

Sherlock seized his opportunity, making his exit. He flew through the larger opening and into his own room, until realizing he couldn’t exactly turn in front of John. The only appropriate course of action would be to fly out his bedroom window.

He considered never returning.

When he arrived back at the flat several hours later in his more human form, his cheeks were still tinged pink.

When John attempted to start a conversation with him—beginning with _“you wouldn’t believe what happened earlier”_ —Sherlock fled to his freezing bedroom (window still open) without a word.

+

After the first incident, Sherlock came to the conclusion that he would have to stop trailing John in his other form, at least for some time. John had seen him now, which was a terrible slip on his part, and meant he couldn’t very well be seen again. Even with his significantly lessened observational skills, John might eventually notice that a bat was following him everywhere.

Sherlock didn’t hang in John’s bedroom window for a week, and instead took the extra time to feed more than he usually would.

Which was good. Feeding was….something. Important.

But, John had used to suffer from nightmares before moving in with Sherlock, and as a point of pride, Sherlock liked to confirm for himself that they weren’t continuing. This was the usual rationale for haunting John’s windowsill. Regular reaffirmation that John’s new life with Sherlock was exciting enough to fix all of John’s bedsit-life problems.

Which was how Sherlock found himself in John’s window. He had lasted a week. If four days were considered a week, which was maybe one of those things John would have disagreed with. John was sleeping peacefully, unmoving. There was nothing to see. He would leave shortly. In a bit.

John’s window was cracked open. It was just wide enough for, say, a small animal to squeeze through.

Sherlock was through the window and on the lip of John’s floor lamp before he knew it. It wasn’t a conscious decision; he just felt the need to be closer. At this distance, he could discern John was in REM sleep. He watched the movement of John’s eyes beneath his lids and the movement of his chest, almost unnoticeable beneath the sheet.  

All of this Sherlock could have gotten away with. In this way, the first shape-shifting incident caused the second. By staying away from John, Sherlock had grown bolder, more desperate. And by feeding excessively while staying away, he had made himself lethargic.

His eyes were drifting closed, and the bed looked remarkably comfortable. And John slept on the left side, not the middle. Almost as if he were waiting for someone to fill in the right. Yet, John never brought any of his women back to the flat. Probably because he didn’t want them meeting Sherlock.

Sherlock was just curious, was all. He wanted to know what John’s sheets felt like. He’d only been in John’s room before to properly index his ties and shirts. The bed had been stripped of its sheets at the time. He wanted to make up for the missed opportunity.

Sherlock dove for the other side of the bed, landing with grace. The covers were already partially lifted, making it easy to wiggle underneath. The sheets themselves were only satisfactory, but they felt much better when he had folded his wings around himself, forming a tight cocoon.

His impression of the sheets improved shortly after, but he might have been biased by the smell of John clinging to them, and the sound of John’s deep, even breathing next to him. The combination of John’s smell, the sound of him sleeping peacefully, and the soft cotton against his skin was all rather soothing. He yawned, pulling his wing up over his face, just for a moment.

The next thing Sherlock knew there was a bright light and a great deal of yelling. John had turned on the light and was now screaming bloody murder, which was rather inconsiderate of him.

Sherlock recalled his current situation as soon as he attempted to lift his arm to cover his eyes, only to find a wing membrane pressed against his snout. The shouting made much more sense now, though still seemed excessive.

John had jumped out of the bed, likely as soon as he’d realized there was something else in it with him, and Sherlock roused himself before John attempted to forcibly remove him. He flew upwards, which only caused John to start up again.

“Christ! How the hell does it keep getting in?” John asked the room at large, his ragged breathing beginning to even out.   

Sherlock landed on John’s bedside lamp again, causing John to jump. John stared at him and Sherlock stared back. Without taking his eyes off Sherlock, John lunged to the side of the room, where clearly Mrs Hudson had left a broom on her last surprise cleaning visit. Sherlock could have wrung her neck at that moment.

Somewhat alarmed by John approaching him with a broom in hand, Sherlock fluttered away from the lamp. Whenever Sherlock was in motion, John ducked low into a crouch. However, his broom was very much at the ready. Sherlock steered his flight as high as possible to avoid getting whomped.

He hit the top of the window edge with a bit too much speed, just barely managing to affix himself with his thumbs, hoping he was high enough. John’s reach was significantly extended when he was bandying about that thing.

Sherlock had wanted to take his leave immediately, as he done during the first incident, but the window hadn’t been open enough for him to fly directly through. It had required wiggling to fit through the first time. Even in this form, Sherlock had too much dignity to _wiggle_ through an opening in front of John.

John, still slow and careful, was now approaching him in his new spot. When Sherlock extended his wings and shook the elastic skin, John took a step back with a hand outstretched in front him. “It’s all right,” John murmured, “It’s okay, bat. I don’t want to hurt you.”

John’s voice was very gentle. Soothing, admittedly. However, Sherlock resented being talked to like a wild animal in need of coddling. It was condescending. Sherlock flapped a second time to communicate his displeasure; he could not be pacified so easily.

“Shh, shh.” He was being hushed now, which was ridiculous, and absolutely not working.

While still shushing him, and with eyes trained on him at all times, John ducked forward and pushed the window up a few more centimeters. When Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, John stepped back and began to slowly extend the broom, bristles first, towards him. Sherlock began flapping his free wing not clinging to the windowsill in earnest, not wanting that thing anywhere near him.

“It’s all right, shh, yeah, that’s it,” John said, voice still low and sweet. “I’m going to help you get back outside, all right?”

Well, that actually did sound…. agreeable. Mutually beneficial really.

John continued to tentatively stretch the broom over to him, and when it finally arrived, Sherlock uncurled himself and grabbed hold with one clawed finger. Slowly, Sherlock allowed himself to lean forward onto the broom’s bristles. If John had known even the first thing about the creature Sherlock currently resembled, he might have clued into this being unusual behaviour. Luckily, John was fairly ignorant on such topics, and lowered the broom handle with him on it with bated breath.

John did at least seem somewhat shocked that his approach was successful (as he should have been). “That’s it, yes, okay just stay there for a little longer,” John coaxed him, ever gentle in his handling of the broom. “Okay, bat, just hang on…”

John pushed the broom out through the opening of the window, and finally, Sherlock was able to make his escape. Sherlock heard John exhale a sigh of relief before closing the window, tight.

Well, there went having a nap.

 

+

 

The tally came out to two and a half shape-shifting related incidents (getting caught with the strays didn’t count as a full one). Hardly anything major really. Sherlock thought that Mycroft ought to eat his unwelcome warnings about how his relationship with John “could only end badly” and that John would “find out soon enough.” If Sherlock could be bothered, he might have texted back that cohabiting and hiding his secret was going wonderfully.

Until the other shoe dropped.

In a strange turn of events, it wasn’t his shape-shifting in the flat that spilled the beans.

Sherlock hadn’t fed in days and, as per his routine, he had slipped into his room to choke down the cold bag from his mini-fridge. He had only managed three long sips through his straw before the door to his bedroom was forced open, and John’s face was peeking through at him.

Sherlock hadn’t heard a sound, his drinking must have drowned it out. He was always at his weakest when feeding.

John’s eyes were narrowed in confusion, while Sherlock imagined his were wide and panicked. Staring at one another, neither of them moved a muscle for the longest fifty-five seconds Sherlock had ever experienced.

“You have questions,” Sherlock observed, before they reached the minute mark.

His hand was frozen stiff, still gripping the bag. John’s eyes were fixated on it.

“You could say that, yeah,” John said. His voice was strained, and Sherlock couldn’t tell if it signalled only surprise, or fear.

Sherlock couldn’t understand much of anything, all of his deductions overlaying across the lines of John’s face, question marks scattered throughout.

Sherlock had never wanted to get to this part. Now that it was here anyway, he suspected it would be just as tedious as he’d feared. Sherlock had two options. One was to lie, which would be difficult to accomplish _(It’s for a case?)_ , and would still cause him to seem like an incomparable freak. The other was to tell the truth, much to the same effect.

Either way, John would leave. Though John was currently in his doorway, hand gripping the doorknob, in reality he was already gone. All of Mycroft’s warnings had come to fruition, and he should have known the clock was ticking down on them, and he should have known to never have gotten _involved_ —

Fine! As there was no difference either way, Sherlock settled on truth. He was tired of lies.

Sherlock decided on telling the full truth, and then panicked and changed his mind, and then panicked again, and then settled on the truth once more. This all occurred within the span of one blink of John’s light eyelashes.

To John’s continued stunned silence, Sherlock said, “It’s exactly what you think.”

There was a pause, and then John laughed, high and thin. That laugh always meant John was uncomfortable, or displeased, or that he didn't believe a word Sherlock said. In this case, Sherlock supposed it was all three.

“Are you—? You’re serious,” John said. The hand that wasn’t on the doorknob rubbed at the side of his face. “You’re really suggesting that….that you’re…”

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. He wanted to look at anything other than John stumbling his way through this. “We don’t have to say the word if you’d prefer, John. And yes, that is exactly what I’m suggesting. Or rather, what I am telling you.”

The conversation became circular after that. John was unable to believe the evidence in front of his own eyes. Which, while better than John running away screaming, still wasn’t enjoyable.

He didn’t enjoy having the conversation at all. It would ruin everything between them. The easy nature of their friendship, the implicit trust John had in him, the feeling of it always being just the two of them—he was currently in the act of ruining all of it.

 

And it wasn’t even his fault! John was the one who had chosen to sneak into his room on suspiciously quiet feet.

John was still rubbing his face, while continuing to stand in the doorway. The face rubbing normally meant he found Sherlock exasperating, and might need to go out to get some ‘air’, except that this time he might not come back.

The circular conversation continued. “And, you’re sure this isn’t just a…?”

“Delusion?” Sherlock filled in, snappish. If John was done with him now (and over a bit of blood drinking!), Sherlock would rather they just get to it rather than go through the list of every possible other explanation.

John’s brow furrowed, taken aback. Ah, so not that then. “I was going to say fetish,” John clarified, with an aborted laugh.

Sherlock blinked.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” John said, smiling tightly. Trying to find the humour in the uncomfortable situation, as always.

Sherlock didn’t know how else to respond to that, so opted for finishing his blood instead. He did so as rudely and as loudly as possible.

Sherlock laid the emptied bag on his side table, and then swung his legs over the side of his bed. John would go on forever at this rate; he might as well let John in on the entire secret. “Shall I show you?”

John eyed him dubiously, but nodded.

In one swift motion, Sherlock stood from the bed. John took a step away from him, back against the open door. Once he was certain he had John’s full attention, Sherlock began to shift.

John’s expression went through a number of stages, all coinciding with different parts of the transformation process. By the end, John’s face had settled on recognition.  

“Oh my God,” John said, though not in the way Sherlock had been hoping. “You! It was you, this whole damn time!”

If anyone had been looking on, John would have appeared quite odd, yelling at a small bat flying in one spot in front of him. Sherlock could only sustain that for so long however, and soon took to flying in circles above him. It was rather nice to finally get a chance to show off.

“Would you stop that?” John was still shouting, and he didn’t seem impressed at all, even though Sherlock’s flight path had been one of his better executed figure eights. “Sherlock, be you again, right now! Sherlock!”

Sherlock became ‘himself’ again, as demanded, adding more flourish to his return to the ground than was perhaps necessary.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” John had jumped at his reappearance, but was now back to raging, pointer finger extended. “It’s one thing when you change the password on my laptop or rearrange my wardrobe, but I draw the line at watching me when I shower!”

Sherlock’s arms had been outstretched in an aborted ‘ta-da’ gesture, but they now dropped to his sides. Sherlock’s face fell. John was really being quite unbelievable about this.

“Your flatmate reveals he isn’t exactly human, and that’s all you have to say? How dare I come into the toilet while you were having a shower?”

“Yes, thanks, that is what I have to say! Why the hell did you come in while I was showering like that, and,” John cried, really gaining steam now, “My bedroom! Oh my God, that was you. I was talking to you. Of course it was. I’m sure that was a right laugh for you.”

“It wasn’t a laugh!” That incident had been very trying for the both of them. God, John could get things so twisted. “Those were both… unintended. Incidents.”

Sherlock turned away from John’s ire, a scowl forming. Sherlock supposed he hadn’t expected John to be impressed with him, he’d only just become a _bat_ for him. It had been weeks since he’d gotten so much as a ‘brilliant’ out of John, could anyone blame him if he’d hoped for some praise?

“Unintended,” John repeated, as if he was mulling it over. He wasn’t. “Not sure that checks out.”

“They were accidents!” Sherlock insisted, and then at once, recalled how they had arrived at this situation. His eyes narrowed on John, deductions finally becoming clear.

“And I might ask you the same thing! Coming into my bedroom, unannounced, wearing silk socks—nice touch John—did you slide down the hall the moment my door was closed, or did you wait a full minute before bursting in?”

John’s face flushing in anger gave him away. “Oh, right! Do you honestly think you have the moral upper hand on me right now?”

“A-ha!” Sherlock crowed, mirroring John’s accusing stance. “So you admit it! You snuck up on me!”

“Yes, okay, yes, I did! I wanted to know what you were always, uh—” John waved his hand between Sherlock and the depleted bag on his table. “But that still doesn’t come anywhere close to coming into my room at night, Sherlock, or coming in while I’m showering.”

“I’ve done that before,” Sherlock scoffed, “and you reacted with far more poise.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit different when you’re a goddamn bat!” John rubbed his face, his constant state it seemed.

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, not really seeing how. Perhaps it was John not knowing that it was him beforehand. Hmm. Maybe he had overstepped.

John always told him he should apologize in these situations, which might be enough to calm John down. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, a question mark almost hanging at the end of it.

“And?” John prompted.

Sherlock sighed. He hated having to make promises he didn’t want to keep, but would now have to. “I won’t come into your room or the toilet as a bat any more.” There. That should do it.

John nodded. “Okay. Good. Agreed.”

John wasn’t yelling any more, but he still didn’t look happy, even after Sherlock had apologized and promised. Sherlock still couldn’t tell what John made of him being like _this_ , whether it was too strange, whether John would stay.

His bottom lip shook. He willed it to stop. “It’s your own nosiness that got you here, John,” Sherlock pointed out, petulant in the face of John’s stoniness. “You can’t blame me for what I am.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said, face turning ashen. John looked guilty, or at least more so than he had when admitting to invading Sherlock’s room on purpose. “I’m not blaming you for…. whatever this is. We just needed to have a talk about privacy.”

“Privacy,” Sherlock drawled, extending the word. “Is that really all?”

For the hundredth time, John’s gaze refocused on the drained mini-bag. “Okay. Yeah. Maybe there’s more. Like where do those come from?” John asked, waving in its vague direction.

Sherlock’s eyes slid to the side. “It’s given voluntarily, if that’s what you’re asking. I have a... contact.”

“A contact. Okay.” John nodded, apparently willing to let that go, for now. “So, just bags then? Or do you….?”

John trailed off, but the implication was still clear. “God, no,” Sherlock grimaced. “You needn’t worry John. That’s not really my area.”

“Right.”

John’s clipped responses were really starting to make him agitated, which caused him moments later to blurt out, “For God’s sake, I’m not going to _prey_ on you!”

“Never said you would,” John replied slowly, brows pushing together to form a crease.

“And you weren’t thinking it?” Sherlock asked, not entirely sure.

“No!” John said with a laugh. “I know you.”

“One hundred percent?” Sherlock clarified, catching John’s eye.

John answered without looking away. “You can be a rude arse Sherlock, but I’m not the Yard.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t think you’re capable of real, intentional harm or cruelty,” John said, as if stating anything else. “Unless, of course, everything up till now has been a lie.”

“It hasn’t,” Sherlock rushed to say, and then paused, feeling wrong-footed. “I’ve omitted the truth, yes. Lied, no.”

“Fine. Then, we’re fine. It’s all fine.” John smiled at the end, likely to reassure him. It worked.  

Sherlock examined John’s face, but couldn’t find even the slightest trace of doubt. Amazingly, John did seem to mean it. He wondered whether there was any end to John’s trust and belief in him, and more importantly, whether he was worthy of it.

John rocked back on his heels and cracked a crooked smile up at him, perhaps to break the intensity of his current scrutiny. “So, not a fetish then?”

That punched a laugh from Sherlock’s gut, though shortly after made him tenser than before. With a forced smile he quipped, “Not everything is about sex, John.”

Except, that it was. A bit.

+

True to John’s word, it was fine. All fine.

John however did question him about it, and Sherlock answered to the best of his ability. John’s curiosity was piqued at unpredictable times, and his questions came in waves. Either it was not addressed at all, or John wanted to know everything.

While buttering toast the morning following the discovery, John’s face had scrunched, and his round eyes had turned onto Sherlock in confusion. Still peering into the eyepiece of his microscope, Sherlock had raised one eyebrow in query.

“I’ve seen you eat toast and honey,” John said.

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“I’ve seen you eat mince pies out of Mrs Hudson’s fridge,” John said.

“Are you really going to list out every food I’ve ever eaten?”

“No, but—you know. Explain.”

Sherlock finally raised his head from the eyepiece. “I can eat food. There. Is that explanation enough?”

John sat down across from him, folding his hands onto the table. “Nowhere close. Do you need to eat to live, like a person? And if you can, then why the blood bags?”

“I need to feed to continue living. The food humans eat doesn’t sustain my body in the same way, but I can consume it.”

John paused, thinking that over. Then, bizarrely, he smiled. The expression was reminiscent of the time John had watched Sherlock feed the homeless network.

“What?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t understand that look. He hated not understanding.

“You like it,” John stated. “You eat honey because you like it.”

Sherlock scoffed. He felt embarrassed, even though he was quite certain there was nothing to be embarrassed about. “Of all the….,” he trailed off, eyes dropping back to the safety of the microscope. He could still feel John smiling at him regardless.

The next question period hit on a slow Sunday when they were both sitting together in the living room.

John had dropped his medical journal onto his armrest, and without further ado, had begun openly staring at Sherlock. His skin had pricked under the scrutiny. “Yes, John?” he prompted.

“You told me I couldn’t blame you for being like this,” John said, tapping the other armrest with his index finger. “Sort of suggests there’s someone to blame.”

“Does it?” Sherlock asked, looking heavenward. So much for playing a game on his phone.

John leaned forward in his armchair, elbows on his knees. “Who made you like this?”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock replied, tone veering into condescending. “No one made me. I—”

“You made yourself?” John cut in. “Seriously?”

Sherlock’s lips turned down at the corners. He hated when John stole his thunder. It was especially worse when he was right. “Well, no. Technically, my parents made me.”

“Parents, plural?” John asked, his expression turning quickly from confusion into concern.

This was an occasion where John was painfully easy to read. Sherlock felt as though he could see into John’s mind, as if it was a film playing out on a screen before him. The image of himself as a doe-eyed innocent, and the two ghoulish figures holding him, as they feasted on his neck.

“Yes John, plural!” Sherlock cried. “A mother and a father, just like you. And for God’s sake not like that!”

That stopped John’s bad film in its tracks, though only served to make him look more confused. “Sorry, not like what?”  
  


“Whatever it was you were thinking, stop it immediately. I was born, like you, the creation of two people. Very much like any other heterosexual family unit.”

John drew back, lips pursed. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the eye, but he thought John might have mouthed ‘heterosexual’ under his breath.

After a pause, John continued his line of questioning. “So, you have—parents?”

Sherlock didn’t know how much more of this he could take. “Did you suppose Mycroft and I had materialized one day?”

“No, it’s just so….ordinary,” John said with laugh. “Though Mycroft being like—uh, this, as well—does explain a lot.”

Ignoring the Mycroft comment, Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes at ‘ordinary’. As predicted, knowledge of Sherlock’s inhumanness had only worsened John’s hero worship expectations of him. John was still around at least, but now he had John’s inevitable disappointment to look forward to, whenever John realized he was much closer to a person than anything John might have learned from sensational literature.

The questions from then on were sporadic, and less like a series of inquiries.

John had been contemplating growing older (a minute and a half spent looking at himself in the mirror, and eyes skidding over hair dye targeted at older men while shopping), and several hours later asked Sherlock whether his people aged.

“Yes John, like any other living creature.”

The subject had been promptly dropped again. Several days later, John was looking into the mirror over the mantle, and caught sight of Sherlock in it as if he were seeing him for the first time. John had pointed at him. Or rather, the image of him reflected in the mirror glass.

“It’s my face,” Sherlock said, in answer to a question not asked.

“Brilliant, yeah, that’s your best one yet,” John said, lowering his finger. “Your reflection Sherlock. You have one.”

“Yes, like anything else living or dead,” Sherlock said, sinking into his chair and out of the mirror. “John, this will be much easier if you let go of any and all ridiculous myths.”  
  


“Right, because turning into a bat is a perfectly reasonable myth,” John said, and then listed out, “Garlic, crosses, holy water? Anything?”

Sherlock made dismissive hand gestures for each item. “All nonsense fabricated by humans, or who knows, maybe by our own people so we had easy ways to throw humans off the scent. Perhaps a combination of both. People who are different have to protect themselves.”

While John’s eyes lit up at the mention of protection, the topic was once again forgotten in favour of more pressing concerns, such as what curry John ought to order for dinner.  

Luckily the question Sherlock was most afraid of, and that he would not have known how to answer, John never asked.

John never returned to the subject of feeding, not after the night of the discovery. Apparently all John had wanted confirmed was that Sherlock didn’t drink from humans, and that he still wanted to have honey in the morning. John, of course, had no cause for thinking this was unusual. He had no way of knowing that Sherlock’s practices were particular. ( _Childish_ , Mycroft would have corrected.)

Sherlock had always distanced himself from people—humans and his own kind alike—and similarly, from feeding. With the bags, he was in control. He didn’t lose himself in the act, and there was no other variable to account for. His fangs didn’t even need to descend. If his body could remain detached, he was mentally and physically in possession of himself. No messiness.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of it. He simply preferred it this way. (Mycroft would have begged to differ).

+

Sherlock began to grow optimistic that they would never discuss his feeding habits ever again. Except, of course, then there was a case.

It was always a case.

Sherlock hadn’t drank in a week. He never did on a case; feeding slowed him down. Even with his puerile drinking practices, he couldn’t allow himself even the chance of becoming… worked up.

They’d had a nasty run in with some of London’s finest, and were now a bit stuck. Trapped, really. The details weren’t important. And it hadn’t been his fault, to be clear.

“Great,” John said. “You know, maybe if you ever told me what we were doing, this would happen less.”

So, it might have been a bit his fault. “You’ve never complained about my methods before.”

“Yeah, actually I have,” John sighed. “And that was before I learned a large part of your mysterious methods was actually getting inside information from cats. By the way, there wouldn’t be one of those around here, would there?

“A stray cat? We’re in a cellar John.” They were, in fact, in a partially underground and locked cellar. Their only link to the outside world was a small, barred window in the room’s top corner, much too tiny for a person to fit through.

“Does your mobile have reception? I’m at zero bars. It’s that, or we just have to wait here till the Yard somehow finds us. ”

Sherlock groaned, striding across the room, and reaching up at the barred window in vain. His fingers just managed to grip the edges, but regardless, the bars held fast. He couldn’t have fit through the window anyway. “We can’t wait! That could take ages!”

John was watching him struggle, leaning against the damp door, completely unhelpful, and not at all agitated. John was resigned to their situation apparently. “Hours at least, yeah. I suppose we can entertain ourselves.”

Sherlock doubted that very much. Now that he didn’t have the pursuit to focus on, his starvation was making itself known.

And the only assistance John offered was to move out of Sherlock’s way when he barreled back over to the door. It was still bolted from the outside. Not much he could do from the inside. He jostled the door a few more times, just in case.

“I’ve had a thought,” John said, perhaps finally taking pity on his frantic attempts. “Why not shape shift? It’s that, or one of your feline friends.”

Sherlock’s hand stilled on the door. He felt his body, testing his boundaries, and finding the strength he had available to him lacking. No, it was definitely not possible.

“And leave you in here alone, John? You really do think I’m callous,” Sherlock deflected, still facing the cellar door.

“Somehow I don’t think you’d leave me here to rot.”

“If you continue to refer to my homeless network as ‘feline friends’, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

There was a pause, before John realized he wasn’t joking. “You’re serious. You’re not going to change into a bat.”

Sherlock’s silence extended, prompting John to turn him around to face him, with a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s something you aren’t telling me,” John asserted, firm but concerned. Sherlock’s silence continued. “Sherlock,” John said, simply, and that was what did it.

“Yes, _fine_.” Sherlock bit out. “I can’t right now.”

John’s worry ratcheted up several notches. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Sherlock reassured him, “I just haven’t eaten in quite some time.”

“Oh. Oh, right,” John said, as if just remembering what that meant for Sherlock.

John then cracked his neck, and rolled up the sleeve of his jumper. “Luckily that’s a much easier fix than my hunger pains. Don’t exactly have a Sunday roast hanging out with us in here.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked, eyes drawn to John’s arm, now revealed from beneath the wool. It was an unusual sight as John was buttoned up almost constantly; Sherlock hadn’t seen this much bare skin since the shower mishap.

“I thought this was fairly straight forward,” John said, arm raised. “We’re stuck in here, unless you change. You can’t change because you haven’t fed. I would have thought the solution would be obvious.”

Sherlock was aware that for some the draw of humans and the blood beneath their skin was a constant call, but it had never been like that for him. Even with his own people, he was different. He had never planned to engage in the practice, which made it simple to push from his mind.

For perhaps the first time in his life, he understood the appeal. But it had nothing to do with the desperate hunger roiling in his gut. The idea of it being John’s.... John, _feeding_ him, the two of them joined together in the closest way possible. He had smelled John, and touched him, but he had never _tasted_ —

“I can’t,” Sherlock gasped. It came out far too strained for a good-natured conversation. The conversation where John was casually rolling up his sleeves, and offering the easy, obvious solution.

John’s head quirked to the side, and his lips pursed into a bemused smile. “You can’t? Is this some kind rule we haven’t covered?”

“You can’t just—do that,” Sherlock managed, hand flapping to indicate John’s skin. Pale, he’d been back from overseas for so long, and blue veins visible along his wrist.

John’s smile was fond, obviously missing the point entirely. “I’m a doctor, I’ve donated blood loads of times.  Whenever the hospital runs short they head to the staff. Giving it to you isn’t any different than giving it to any other person.”

“That’s not what I meant, though yes, you offering is different, and too self-sacrificing _doctor_ ,” Sherlock snapped, hunger getting the better of him. ( _‘Person,’_ John had said. _‘Any other person.’_ )

“You mean—does it hurt when you bite someone? I’m sure I’ve had worse.”

No, Sherlock thought, in fact he understood it was rather euphoric for the donator when it was done right, not that he’d ever— _no, no, no, no._

But the pangs were there, and they would only get worse. Now that John had offered and they were in close quarters, it would get much worse. Why did John have to be like _this?_

“What is the problem Sherlock?” John asked, voice raising. “I can take it. Or is that just an excuse? Is it something to do with me? You only feed on people who went to Eton?”

God, this was getting out of hand. “John, if you could leave classism out of this—”

“Then what? Why not?”

“Fine! Fine,” Sherlock relented. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, lifting his chin. John pulling up his sleeves made his scent stronger, somehow. It was everywhere. “Sit down, in case you get lightheaded. And take your jumper off.”

At John’s eyebrow raise, Sherlock clarified. “So you have something to press against the wound! Just in case!”

“Right.” John after that sat down without so much as a grumble, a very different reaction than when Sherlock normally bossed him about on case-related work.

John was calm, not bothered in the least by what was about to be given. He pulled his jumper over his head, ruffling up his hair. John continued to roll up his long sleeved shirt beneath.

Sherlock didn’t know where to look. His palms were clammy when he removed his gloves.  John’s arm was bare and he was waiting, and Sherlock had never done this before. He wasn’t sure if the arm was even the best spot, he should have paid more attention, he shouldn’t have isolated himself, he should have learned the right way to treat a human when they willingly gave, he should have learned how to keep himself calm under these circumstances—but he had not.

A soft _“Sherlock?”_ cut through his internal flagellation. His eyes drifted, moving from place to place before settling on the fixed point provided by John’s open, worried eyes.

John looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be concerned, or to take the piss. He glanced down at his forearm. “Is the arm not good? I thought maybe the neck, but then you said all the stereotypes were out the door…”

“The arm is fine! It’s fine.” Sherlock blinked, gathering himself. He had to look like he wasn’t an amateur. John wouldn’t want to be drank from by the inexperienced.

Sherlock reached out for John’s arm, fingers pressing lightly along his wrist. John’s pulse was steady. “May I?”

John’s mouth tipped up on one side. “By all means.”

Sherlock lifted John’s wrist to his mouth. John’s skin would have to come in contact with his mouth first, of course, before he could pierce it with his teeth. He wondered if he should make his lips wetter for the first touch. But then he would have to lick his lips, and his fangs had already extended (when had they done that?), and John would see, and perhaps that would be disconcerting?

“Sherlock?” John was getting impatient. He just wanted to get out of this room, which they were stuck in because Sherlock’s plan had fallen to pieces, and now John was doing the only thing that would allow them to get out. That’s what this about. Not how his lips might feel when pressed against the sensitive skin of John’s inner wrist.  

At the first contact, the movement of John’s chest was the only thing that suggested anything less than calmness. That rapidly drawn in breath; Sherlock had to get this over with, before John became nervous.

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, and pulled back his lips till his sharp teeth could press in. Sherlock, embarrassingly, gnawed for a moment without effect, before gathering himself and pushing through.

The first taste was not unlike the experience of being near John’s neckline and inhaling, except multiplied by approximately infinity. He didn’t want to waste a single drop, wanted to luxuriate in it—but his feeding had been so long constrained to bags and straws. He was messy, sloppy, and too focussed on sensation to care.

His canines were still fully extended, but annoyingly getting in his way. They were only needed for the first part, as most of his drinking from then on out was lapping at the wound with enthusiasm, turning John’s arm this way and that to catch every last drop running along his skin, sucking it from the light blond hairs. There was a gasping sound, but it was far away, distant to his current purpose of more, _more more more._

For the second time, it was only the sound of his name, strung out and high in John’s voice, that brought him back to the moment. This was far more than enough—he was strong now, far more than he’d ever been on a bag, the donor lending his personal fortitude to Sherlock. And still Sherlock lapped, and licked, and mouthed. He knew his saliva could heal the wound till there would be no tangible reminder for John, the incident nothing but a brief moment of pain, followed by his friend making a fool of himself.

Sherlock drew back, hands still clamped on John’s arm but attempting to loosen. His fingers felt stiff, gripping too hard for too long. He gingerly dabbed at the corner of his lip. Some of John’s blood had escaped. He licked the finger after, to catch the last of it. Only minutes before he’d felt sick, weak, helpless. Now, he felt incredible, _invincible_ —

When he caught John’s eyes, that feeling shifted dramatically. Sherlock had expected John to perhaps be light-headed from blood loss, pale, woozy. Instead, his cheeks were flushed, rosy pink as if the blood in his body had only pumped harder in response to its loss. His eyes had never seemed so dark. His lips were parted, breaths coming in short, quiet pants. The tip of his tongue was visible, just touching the corner of his lip.

Sherlock wanted to taste that too. He wanted to taste all of him.

It was at that moment that Sherlock realized his penis, which had been dormant for many years, was currently as flushed with blood as John’s face. He was completely erect, and if he stood from his crouch, his state would make itself very apparent.

Sherlock felt his face flame with John’s blood, and did the only thing he could.

He transformed with his newly acquired energy, and flew out the barred window of the cellar, leaving John behind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some art !!
> 
> 1\. [Art for this chapter by the lovely ivorylungs](http://ivorylungs.tumblr.com/post/138388071140) <3
> 
> 2\. This lil guy could go with any chapter, but check out this [ animation katzensprotte made of our tiny bat son <3 ](http://katzensprotte.tumblr.com/post/147897494568/i-meant-to-post-this-later-together-with-some)


	2. Blood & Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now onto John's POV
> 
> (Apologies in advance for any mistakes still left in here, an almost 8k chapter in a week is a bit faster than I'm used to. As always, a million thanks to my betas Anna and Soli <3)

John had known life would be strange with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had even informed him of this himself during their first meeting, although nothing Sherlock had listed at that time had ended up overlapping with John’s actual complaints.

 

Silence and violin John had no problems with. He could even deal with the occasional human and unidentified remains in the fridge, not that Sherlock had thought to mention that.  

 

Sherlock taking him out to restaurants only to watch him eat in oddly avid fascination, for example, followed by unexplained slurping noises from Sherlock’s bedroom after—that was a bit of a different story.

 

It was the behaviours, and odd occurrences, which John didn’t understand that bothered him the most. The unexplainable aspect nagged at his curiosity. The slurping was high on this list, but that at least he knew was Sherlock, behind his door, doing…something. 

 

John had a tendency to blame all odd things on Sherlock, and rightfully so, as the man attracted the strange in the same way his experiments attracted bacterial growth. 

 

There was a bat that had started hanging in his window. John couldn’t prove Sherlock was behind it, but he knew it was somehow Sherlock’s doing all the same. This was further confirmed for John when the frequency of the bat’s appearances prompted him to ask Mrs Hudson how long the bat had been a regular, which had only caused her to shriek at the mere mention of the animal, and insist the property had never had a problem with pests.  

 

Mrs Hudson had started cleaning in his room more often in hopes of seeing it herself, but the bat never visited her while she was giving the floor a hard sweeping. The bat must not have liked the look of her broom, as John still caught sight of it on a regular basis, its peculiar, long face and blue-tinted neck fur appearing outside his third floor bedroom window in the late evenings. John didn’t pay it too much attention, barely reacting to its round, seemingly inquisitive eyes. John didn’t mind it per se; a bat had nothing on camel spiders. 

 

Except then the bat started to get  _ inside  _ the flat; first, the toilet while he was showering, and then, through his bedroom window at night where he found it snuffling and yawning next to him  _ in his bed _ . John didn’t know why, or how, but somehow he was still convinced: Sherlock was behind it.

 

Aside from his nighttime visitor, which John couldn’t prove had anything to do with Sherlock, there were the deliveries Sherlock always signed for that came in cooler bags John associated with specimens transported between hospitals. For any other mail or deliveries Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to get off the sofa, but he didn’t even let Mrs Hudson answer the door for these. John expected to find the cooler bags’ contents in the fridge, but they never appeared. John wondered if Sherlock thought he just didn’t notice. 

 

In comparison, Sherlock not seeming overly fussed about eating or sleeping was a minor detail. When Sherlock did perform these essentials, he acted like they were great indulgences. Sherlock napped on the sofa if it pleased him, and could go days on only honey and biscuits dipped in tea.

 

John couldn’t get a read on him at all. Worse still, the read John wanted to get on him had nothing to do with Sherlock’s eccentric lifestyle, and more to do with whether his general flamboyance hinted at anything else.

 

The same way John suspected the bat was somehow Sherlock-related, his gut also told him the mysterious slurping was the key to the rest of it. That, or behind that door Sherlock was guiltily drinking bright pink low-fat soy smoothies, and he thought John would take the piss unless he drank them in private.

 

Perhaps it wasn’t very good of him to snoop, purposefully plotting to violate a flatmate’s privacy, but frankly it seemed harmless in comparison to Sherlock reading all his emails. So, once Sherlock had ribbed John one too many times about his blog, John planned to catch him in the act. At the very least he’d have something embarrassing to hold over him. 

 

However, after creeping over to Sherlock’s room in socked feet during a particularly loud slurp, John had not been expecting to open the door to find Sherlock drinking blood out of an infusion bag. 

 

To say the least.

 

+

 

Somehow in the end it was like learning anything else about Sherlock. John had already considered Sherlock’s powers of deduction to be almost fantastical; it naturally followed that Sherlock was a genuine magical creature. John was relieved more than anything—once he knew Sherlock wasn’t human, explanations for almost everything poured in.

 

It was just another fun addition to the list John had been making of Sherlock Holmes’ skills and limitations. John might write it up for the blog sometime: Sherlock composes his own music, read Chemistry at university, and can turn into a bat, assuming he’s inclined to follow you to work. Limitations: has a sweet tooth, and needs blood to survive, preferably administered via bendy straws. That’d really light up the comments section, with Sally Donovan the only one claiming to be unsurprised.

 

Sherlock was even an interesting sort of bat. When John had done a brief internet search he couldn’t find any that looked quite like him, but Sherlock did seem to be some kind of fruit bat. The long face and round eyes fit, and apparently fruit bats could sometimes be as small as Sherlock; the only discrepancy was the collar of blue fur around his neck. 

 

Naturally, there was an abrupt and strained phone call from Mycroft. John had answered and without preamble Mycroft had commented, “He told you.”

 

Belatedly John realized his first meeting-cum-kidnapping with Mycroft had been in anticipation of this moment. Determining if John could be trusted with the secret. The call had ended just as quickly as it had started, a cryptic but clear reminder that any drop in his loyalty would not end well for him. Not that John had needed to be told. 

 

That had all been the simple part, after John’s discovery. A time John ended up remembering fondly, wherein he finally felt like he had pieces of Sherlock pinned down. 

 

Unexplained slurping? Blood. Unexplained information? Stray cats. Good. Great, even. 

 

After the cellar, that was all dashed to pieces. Any pins John might have put down were pulled out, his short-lived grasp on Sherlock fluttering to the ground. 

 

It had just been a friend helping a friend, John reminded himself afterwards. Much in the same way that walking in on Sherlock mid-way through feeding had just been a friendly misunderstanding explained at last, and definitely not something John couldn't stop thinking about since then.

 

_‘I’m not going to prey on you,’_  Sherlock had said, and it should have been a relief, only the idea hadn’t even entered John’s head until Sherlock had told him he wouldn’t. And once that concept was in his head, it was hard to shake. Maybe not exactly the ‘preying’ aspect. More the…act itself. John’s curiosity was piqued. ‘Need for danger’ written in Ella’s neat scrawl, seen upside down, came to mind.  

 

It was more that John wasn’t sure why that was so obviously and distastefully off the table. Sherlock asked John to do nearly everything else—ridiculous, huge requests, to the point where John was considering giving up his job outside of Sherlock. It was good, of course, that Sherlock knew not to ask him for his blood. When he thought of it like that, it was a tall order. Maybe Sherlock had finally learned how to have boundaries, and respect other people’s. 

 

Except the two of them not having boundaries with each other was sort of their status quo, and that got John thinking. If Sherlock said he didn’t intend to do something, it usually meant lack of desire rather than restraint. Sherlock had said ‘not his area,’ but what the hell did that mean? He’d also said he had a ‘contact.’ 

 

John had wondered whether Sherlock sometimes got blood right from the source, and the bags were just to hold him over till he got the real thing. Poor sod, whoever that was. 

 

John felt sorry for them, really. It must be uncomfortable, or so he imagined. The kind of thing only someone down on their luck would do, offering themselves up like that. John had wondered what part of the body was the usual, or if Sherlock’s people would have preferences. The neck seemed obvious, but also like it’d end in accidental homicide. The arm maybe, or the thigh. The image of Sherlock, looking hungry, approaching a faceless someone’s inner thigh, sinking his teeth into them, had come to John’s mind unbidden. 

 

John wasn’t sure about that part, or any part, but he assumed that was how it was done. Or maybe, that never happened at all.  _ ‘Not my area’.  _

 

But then, if Sherlock did feed off some poor bloke, why did he seem so affronted by the mere implication of feeding on John? Was there something unappealing about John’s blood? Wrong blood type? Were there preferences for blood donors?

 

Maybe, John thought, Sherlock only fed from women. Well. That would clear up. A lot. He wondered if maybe Molly was giving out more than toes and appendices. But that was ridiculous—of course she wasn’t. Sherlock hardly seemed to ever give Molly a second thought. John pushed it from his mind. 

 

Until the cellar, when it became obviously pragmatic and essential to them and their case work. If it was also a convenient time to get his feeding-related questions answered, and without even having to ask them, sometimes John was able to also have more than one goal in mind. 

 

Sherlock didn’t seem keen on John’s solution initially, which hurt John’s pride a bit, if he were being honest. Sherlock drank blood cold out of plastic infusion bags with a red plastic bendy straw. He wasn’t sure why his arm wouldn’t be up to snuff in a dire situation.  

 

Finally, Sherlock had relented. That was one word for it anyway. 

 

John wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. A double pin-prick against his wrist maybe—or so he told himself right before, like how he’d reassure a patient before an injection. 

 

First, there was Sherlock, hesitant, almost shy. John would have laughed in shock, if it wasn’t clear the expression was genuine. John didn’t know what to make of it. Sherlock was almost sweet as he raised John’s wrist to his lips, and wasn’t that a sight. 

 

Second, there was a gentle nibbling. John didn’t know how else to describe it. It was like getting chewed on by a blunt-toothed child. It tickled, a bit. John assumed that was part of the process. Maybe Sherlock needed to get the skin ready? Checking that it was a good spot? 

 

The last part should have been that pin-prick feeling, but John barely felt anything more than brief pressure, the awareness that his skin had been pierced, and then warmth. Heat radiated out from the place where Sherlock’s mouth met his arm, traveling upwards and outwards throughout his whole body. It felt like Sherlock had unhinged his jaw, and was swallowing him whole. The sensation was incredible, but John could hardly focus on anything besides Sherlock himself. 

 

Sherlock had been acting cagey moments before, agitated and weakened likely from his hunger, a state John considered two wrong turns away from one of Sherlock’s black moods. Now Sherlock was becoming vibrant again, just from drinking in soft sips from John’s arm. The pallor of his skin faded away, noticeable even to John.

 

Sherlock was pressed to him, as much of his face against John as was physically possible. John’s hand cupped the back Sherlock’s head without thought, curved into his hair, his forearm just brushing Sherlock’s jaw. 

 

Sherlock’s drinking wasn’t restrained to teeth in his arm, as John might have thought. It was mouth wide, tongue active, all wet contact. John had never experienced anything like it, and was not uncomfortable in the least. John didn’t feel sorry for that poor sod any more, that was for sure. 

 

And when Sherlock drew back, he looked how John felt. Sherlock was better obviously, much better, and because of John. The rush of blood John felt was the same feeling he got from treating a patient, from a job well done. He’d done that for Sherlock; that was him, in the rosy hue of Sherlock’s cheeks. John’s blood, somehow, by some magic, swallowed down Sherlock’s throat and now running straight into Sherlock’s veins. 

 

The way Sherlock had looked at him after was indescribable. It made John think about Sherlock’s mouth against his skin, causing the heat that had run through him to come back with a vengeance. 

 

Around the time John thought they might be having a moment of some variety, Sherlock, the wanker, had dashed off. Obviously wasting no time escaping now that he had his strength back. Not a word to John about leaving, of course. As bloody usual.

 

When John heard a rattle at the cellar door, he expected Sherlock or worse. Instead, he got Greg. Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to come himself, the prick. Greg had looked at him apologetically. He often did. 

 

Sherlock was back at the flat when John returned, but shut up tight in his room. What had happened in the cellar was evidently as closed off as the door at the end of the hallway. Which was fine. Why would there need to be a discussion, or a repeat? That had just been a necessity in a bad spot. 

 

Mrs Hudson came up while he was still standing in the hallway, looking at Sherlock’s bedroom door. 

 

“Did something happen while you were out?” she asked in a loud whisper. John hated that Sherlock had definitely heard that. 

 

“No, just uh—I had some things to do. Out.”

 

Mrs Hudson rubbed his arm, tutting underneath her breath. “Did he leave you behind again? Come on downstairs, we’ll have a cuppa.”

 

John didn’t bother denying it, and headed down to 221A. 

 

_ Well _ , John had thought,  _ never doing that sort of favour for him again, if this is the thanks I get.  _

 

+

 

That night John dreamed Sherlock flew in through his window, hung above John’s bed, and watched him with wings wrapped tight around his body, sharp angles jutting out beneath the skin. John could just see the dark blue collar around his neck, and the shining round eyes peering down at him. 

 

Sherlock had returned to himself mid-air, the transformation nearly frightening in its speed and smoothness, till Sherlock had landed on his feet by John’s side of the bed. He kneeled down next to John. 

 

John lifted his arm, and Sherlock shook his head. His face was shrouded, too dark in the room for John to see the expression. 

 

John tried to bring his face into view, reaching for the back of Sherlock’s head, to draw that mouth back, closer to him—but Sherlock disappeared. John’s subconscious was still influenced by stereotypes; Sherlock vanished in a wisp of smoke, as if he had never been there.

 

+

 

So, maybe John did want a repeat. John could admit he was curious about whether it had been a one-off, and whether it was like that every time. It was possible he wouldn’t enjoy it nearly as much the second time around. Which would be fine. At least then, he wouldn’t be thinking about it, or  _ dreaming  _ about it. 

 

How to go about convincing Sherlock to not leave it as an one time event was the issue. Sherlock had been acting edgy ever since the cellar. That would have been a defining characteristic of the after cellar time period, if not for the fact that Sherlock had always been in the habit of ignoring John when John spoke to him, generally giving John the cold shoulder, and composing mournful violin music. 

 

John first broached the subject when said violin music had reached all new heights of flurry, and Sherlock's cold shoulder was at its iciest. 

 

“Sherlock!” John eventually broke, when Sherlock had devolved into scraping his bow across the strings. “Everything all right?”

 

“Everything. Is. Hateful!” Each word was punctuated by an angry drag across the poor instrument’s strings. Sherlock dropped the violin into his chair after that, and pulled back the curtains from the window, as if he would do anything to not look at John. “Everything from the website is a 2 and Lestrade is miffed with me, don’t know why,” Sherlock clarified, nose nearly pressed against the window glass, before turning to study a loose sheet of paper on the desk.   

 

Greg might be feeling a bit less generous, after being asked to pick someone up from a cellar, John might have suggested. He hummed instead. “When’s the last time you…?” John mimed drinking from a straw.

 

Sherlock’s brows scrunched closer together till they hung over his eyes in incredulity, and then drew back into a eye roll when he understood. “I’m not hungry, John. I’m not actually a child.”

 

One of John’s eyebrows raised in doubt at that. “Fine.” 

 

Not a child. Wonder if that meant he’d drank, just not from a bag through a straw. John wanted to delve further—when was the last time Sherlock had drank at all, how often did he need to, and why had he left without a word after he’d drank from John?

 

He never got the chance to ask, as Sherlock had eyed him with suspicion, and fled the room shortly after. 

 

+

 

John put two and two together when Sherlock’s agitation increased, and his phone continued to go off incessantly, till Sherlock left his phone in the living room and slammed his door. ‘Never Answer Under Any Circumstances’ was flashing across the screen. Mycroft’s contact in Sherlock’s phone, John assumed. 

 

“He hasn’t drank in quite some time, John,” Mycroft said when John picked up, as if they were mid-way through a conversation with one another, and as if Mycroft had actually been calling him. 

 

“Right,” John replied, head swivelling to the recently slammed door. “And when has you being overbearing ever helped with anything to do with Sherlock, exactly?”

 

“Our mutual contact is running late on their supplies,” Mycroft continued, uninterested in acknowledging John’s commentary. “I have my own stockpile and other resources of course, but Sherlock, as you just so succinctly pointed out, does not appreciate my involvement and is being…difficult. Might you talk some sense into him?”

 

“He won’t accept the blood? Are you serious?” Christ, John knew that their relationship was strained, but he hadn’t realized Sherlock would go on a hunger strike because of it. 

 

What was he saying. Of course he would, it was Sherlock. 

 

“Do I often joke with you, John? See what you can do.” 

 

“I suppose I’ll do what I can.”

 

“You will, won’t you?” Mycroft asked, in his usual way that always seemed to imply much more. “Tell me John, were there any scars after?”

 

“What?” John asked, searching his memory for any recent injury he’d sustained.

 

“Oh, never mind. Talk to him about feeding, John,” Mycroft advised and then hung up. 

 

After a record setting 70-second phone call, John realized what Mycroft must have been referring to, but Sherlock hadn’t left a single a mark on John’s wrist. He’d been exceedingly careful. Mycroft must have wanted to communicate that he knew what they’d gotten up to, in the most annoying way possible. 

 

Or perhaps to distract John from this ‘blood shortage’, which John had a strange feeling wasn’t just a coincidence. 

 

+

 

Sherlock was blowtorching some animal’s claws when John took Mycroft’s advice. 

 

“I answered your phone last night, and spoke with your brother for a bit.” 

 

Sherlock made a noise, that could have meant he was listening to John, or that he wished he wasn’t. 

 

“You need to drink Sherlock.” 

 

Sherlock still didn’t turn to look at him. He persisted. “You told me you need it to live. Sounded a bit important, that.”

 

Sherlock groaned, turning off his blowtorch and pushing his filthy safety goggles into his fringe. 

 

“If Mycroft and you could mind your own business, that’d be lovely.” 

 

“You living is my business actually but—” John bit his lip, annoyed with how this was going. This wasn’t about being invasive and nannying Sherlock. “I’m just saying we could…you know. The cellar, again.”

 

The claw Sherlock had been holding delicately with a pair of tongs dropped to the floor, along with Sherlock’s jaw. Shortly after, his eyes narrowed to slits, and his mouth formed a sour line. 

 

“Did Mycroft put you up to this?” Sherlock asked, tone low. He was more suspicious than John thought was justified. 

 

“No, well, not exactly—” Technically Mycroft had suggested they discuss feeding, but that wasn’t the same. “Jesus, why would I just do something because your brother said, I’m only suggesting—“ 

 

“No,” Sherlock cut through. John thought that might be the end of it, but Sherlock didn’t turn away from him. He was still staring at John, like he was attempting to reevaluate everything he knew about him. 

 

“Why not?” John asked with a laugh, rather than let that immediate rejection sting. “We’ve done it before. It’s not any different from you getting another ‘contact’.”

 

Sherlock was silent for a long time, tongs and blowtorch still in hand. John wondered if he’d broken him. 

 

“You mean this,” Sherlock said at last. “You would really do that for—another time.”

 

“Sherlock,” John said, as gently and as patiently as he was able. “If you really needed it, of course I would.” It was perhaps more candid than he had meant to be, but it paid off; Sherlock’s after cellar coldness seemed to drift away, leaving behind only resigned wariness. 

 

Though, resignation wasn’t really what John had been hoping for. “If you don’t want to, of course, we don’t—” He cleared his throat. God, he was transparent. 

 

“You really don’t mind,” Sherlock said, each word slow and unsure. 

 

John was beginning to realize Sherlock’s rejection was something more like hesitance. “You’re starving Sherlock, and it didn’t inconvenience me in the least last time. Except for the part where you left without saying anything.” 

 

To John’s surprise, Sherlock did look suitably chagrined. Well, that settled it. “No, Sherlock, I don’t mind.” 

 

Once that had been established, Sherlock insisted on changing beforehand. He was in and out of his bedroom in a flash, transitioning from a dressing gown over a suit to loose pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. Another idiosyncrasy for John to add to his ever-growing list. 

 

John had wondered if the novelty of the first time would wear off, but the second time felt, if anything, better than his first brush with it. He didn’t feel even the slightest anxiety about it, beyond how Sherlock would react after.

 

An unnecessary concern, as Sherlock reacted similarly to the first time; he fled as soon as it was done, but this time as a man, retreating to his room in a rush. 

 

John wondered whether he ought to feel used the way Sherlock carried on, but was mostly just breathless. He wondered how to get Sherlock to do it again. 

 

+

 

They settled into a routine with stumbling toddler steps, but settled into it nonetheless. 

 

Sherlock would be acting high strung, rude, shouting at Mrs Hudson (usually the last straw), which then segued into—when had he last fed?

 

John would offer; Sherlock would ask if he were certain; John would say he was.

 

Sherlock’s reluctance was always the same:  _ ‘are you sure?’ _ and  _ ‘have you eaten red meat or a substantial amount of spinach in the last five to six hours?’ _ and  _ ‘John, are you certain?’ _

If the questioning had ever come across as Sherlock not wanting to, John would have dropped it, and never discussed it again. 

 

But Sherlock also always looked shy before starting. It was at odds with the rest of the experience, which was immersive and nothing even close to timid. If John had at times experienced coldness from Sherlock or the sense of being easily forgotten, nothing could be further from the case while Sherlock drank from him. 

 

Each time, Sherlock appeared to be in raptures by the end, and John found that fairly flattering. It was always an intense warmth spreading through him, and Sherlock’s mouth sucking on his skin, nearly desperate the way he clung to John like a life buoy. John had imagined the role of donor to be demeaning when he had first thought of the poor faceless sod, but really it felt like power. Sherlock was at his weakest like this, and he needed John more than anything in those few minutes he spent drinking from him. Dependent on him. 

 

Sherlock still vanished after, but at least now with a whispered word of thanks. Sherlock never left the flat, just a mad dash to his bedroom in a swirl of dressing gown. He’d disappear to his room, and then shortly after travel to their shared toilet through his ensuite door. Sherlock would reemerge hours later ( _ “It’s Christmas, John! Something passable has finally come through from the website!”)  _ and it was if the whole thing had never happened. 

 

John always felt cut loose at the end of it. Unmoored. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t just have a bit of blood sharing, and after, Sherlock return to the kitchen table, and him to his armchair. 

 

John was relegated to thinking  _ ‘I wish you wouldn’t’ _ each time Sherlock left. It remained unvoiced.

 

+

 

One evening, fifteen minutes after their routine had run its course, the bat appeared.

 

John knew the bat was Sherlock, obviously. John had seen Sherlock change his form twice, but besides the elongated face and the patch of blue fur reminiscent of his scarf around his neck, there were few similarities. 

 

John found it hard to remember the bat wasn’t just some animal, especially when it floated over, hitting the backrest of the sofa rather hard. John stared openly at Sherlock rearranging himself, and then returned to typing on his laptop. 

 

The bat flitted about the room. Pacing, John supposed, like when Sherlock ran amuck in the flat. 

 

Sherlock seemed to be circling him, but never drew close, always maintaining a safe distance. 

 

Like most things Sherlock did around him, John chose to ignore his behaviour in favour of writing a blog post.

 

+

 

The bat—or, Sherlock as the bat rather—began to always arrive after Sherlock had drank from John, as well as for additional seemingly random appearances. The same performance was put on for John each time, a black form circling overheard, and then he’d be gone once more. 

 

It was getting a little ridiculous. On one such occasion, John broke his usual silence. 

 

“Sherlock,” John addressed the flying bat directly. “Can’t you just pick one spot and, I don’t know, hang?” 

 

John couldn’t tell if Sherlock’s style of flying actually appeared more affronted than it had before, or if he was just able to predict Sherlock’s reaction. 

 

John assumed he was going to be ignored, until Sherlock interpreted his comment as a suggestion to land on his head, flying straight into the back of it without warning. John yelled on impact, and his hand shot up in reflex to pull him off—Sherlock or not, it still felt like a rodent attacking him. 

 

John had intended to knock Sherlock off, but when his fingers came into contact with paper thin wings and downy fur while little claws clung to his neck, he found he didn’t have the heart to fling him away. 

 

John left his hand there, holding Sherlock in place. With one finger, he rubbed at furred skin. When John brought his hand back down to his keyboard, Sherlock shifted to his neck, and then his shoulder. He stayed there for some time. 

 

It should have been disconcerting to have a bat clinging to his shirt. It wasn’t.

 

On the next occasion, John realized why Sherlock hadn’t previously spent time in their common areas as a bat, as Mrs Hudson could be heard climbing the stairs during Sherlock’s spiraled gliding. John’s head shot up, expecting Sherlock to head back down the hallway. Instead, Sherlock dove at John, hitting him square in the chest. John attempted to catch him, but Sherlock evaded his clumsy hands and scrambled into John’s shirt front pocket, barely fitting, ducking his head in to avoid detection. 

 

John’s pocket bulged from the small ball Sherlock had made of himself, and if Mrs Hudson had done much more than glance at him it would have been all over. But, it was adorable. John imagined if he said so, Sherlock would never do it again, so he endeavoured to keep that thought to himself. 

 

“Oh John, I thought you boys were both in?” Mrs Hudson said, laying a tray of biscuits on the side-table by John’s armchair. Peering down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom door, she whispered, “He’s been out of sorts lately, hasn’t he?” 

 

John shrugged while breaking off a bit of biscuit, and slipping it into his pocket. Mrs Hudson had made her way out of the flat long before she could hear the soft snuffling coming from his shirt. 

 

Not that John had planned to have it happen, but double feedings became part of the routine. Sherlock apparently preferred  _ jarred _ honey, and well, he would. Fruit bats ate foods rather than blood John knew, but Sherlock wasn’t exactly a fruit bat. John wasn’t sure if feeding Sherlock as a bat did anything for him, but it seemed to be appreciated regardless. He had started holding out honey on a spoon for Sherlock to eat as a bat, usually mere minutes after he’d held out his arm for Sherlock to eat in his human form. 

 

There was a large discrepancy between the two; Sherlock in his human form was acting distant and strange (stranger than usual, anyway), but Sherlock as a bat had no qualms about sitting in John’s palm or on his shoulder. He and Sherlock had gone from almost never touching, to Sherlock biting his arm on the regular and perching on him as a small animal. 

 

The bat thing still happened most often after Sherlock had fed, and John wondered if Sherlock knew he had that pattern. Probably. Sherlock loved patterns. 

 

Sherlock couldn’t speak as a bat, so they never discussed it. There was nothing to discuss. John preferred it that way, the not talking about it. 

 

Except for the part where he had no bloody idea what any of this meant. 

 

John tried to focus on Sherlock’s bat-related antics in an attempt to distract himself from the part before, where Sherlock would groan and shake as he wrapped his lips around John’s wrist. John could swear it grew more intense each time, his blood running hot at the noises Sherlock made with his eyes closed in apparent bliss. 

 

John hadn’t understood what Mycroft meant about scars initially as Sherlock had never left marks before; the puncture wounds healed each time from Sherlock’s saliva, John presumed. But after one particular feeding, no matter how many times Sherlock licked the skin, two white marks along his wrist remained. John would have said Sherlock reacted strangely to them, but then, it was Sherlock. He always rushed back to his room in a panic. 

 

+

 

The next time John dreamt about Sherlock hanging over his bed, John had more success in getting what he wanted. When John reached for his head, Sherlock bowed forward obediently. 

 

In the unexplainable way of dreams, John watched Sherlock lean down towards his wrist only for Sherlock to appear on the bed rather than the floor, and with his dark curly head bent over John’s crotch rather than his arm. 

 

John blinked awake, rock hard, and darkly muttering to himself. 

 

_ Christ, I’m fucked. _

 

+

 

On John’s ‘once every now and almost-never’ outing for drinks with Mike Stamford, he bumped elbows and fell into conversation with a woman at the bar while he was ordering pints. When Mike had to leave earlier than planned, John made eye contact with her across the pub, and chatted with her some more. It was easy talk. John was good at pulling, and she was clearly interested in being pulled. 

 

Clearly interested was nice. Clearly interested was different. 

 

There was a nagging at the back of his mind, though, a guilt trip of sorts. Another pint quieted it down. 

 

John got her number, and he thought he might call her sometime. If John felt like a man who had gone to the pub with his wedding ring hidden in his pocket, well, he reminded himself for possibly the millionth time that he wasn’t actually married.

 

+

 

After a tentative text exchange the following Saturday, starting with ‘free later tonight?’ and ending with a ‘;)’, which John always took to be a good sign, he headed downstairs to the living room of 221B with a bounce in his step.  

 

Sherlock had been kneeling by the fireplace, but launched to his feet at the sight of John in the doorway. The poker next to the fireplace was pulled from its holder, and pointed with punctuated force in John’s direction. John resisted taking a step back into the safety of the landing. 

 

“Date shoes, more hair product than usual, let your stubble grow out this morning rather than a tight shave because you think it makes you look more  _ rugged,  _ a touch of cologne,  _ need I go on?”   _ Each listed item was emphasized with a point of the poker to its general location on John’s body. 

 

“You don’t, actually,” John replied, rubbing his stubbled chin, and then kicking himself for reacting. “You don’t have to start, let alone go on.” 

 

“Hmm, but who is it?” Sherlock turned his body to face the window, poker at half-mast. “Receptionist from your office? No, far too out of your league. Not someone from the shops either, you always strike out there. The pub then, that night you went out with Stamford for ages and came home smelling like racy perfume.”

 

John hadn’t been out at the pub for  _ ages _ , but he didn’t argue the point. “Yeah, ace, full marks, can you put that poker down?”

 

Sherlock’s face twisted in petulance. The poker was slid back into its holder with a pointed clatter, which made John’s simmering annoyance start to boil into full fledged anger. 

 

“Right, how dare I?” John asked, his ill-restrained temper raising his voice. “How dare I sometimes like to go out.” 

 

Sherlock didn’t respond to that. His body turned a full forty-five degrees towards the fireplace, his back to John, and his face tucked into his chest. 

 

Sherlock was always rude about John’s girlfriends, but he usually had the decency to reserve this level of cattiness for the aftermath of a date. 

 

Sherlock didn’t want John to date, but then, what did he want, exactly? John couldn’t just keep doing their little routine forever, watching Sherlock make sex faces and sex noises, and then act as if nothing had happened. How was he supposed to deal with that? Go off to have a wank in his room after, over a distant, confusing man who wasn’t really a man at all? John still had some self-preservation left, enough to protect his own feelings. If he could shift the interest he had in Sherlock onto someone else, even partially…

 

Sherlock was of course now exiting the living room through the kitchen, by-passing John entirely. Going to his room, of course. 

 

John began preparing himself for his own version of storming out, when Sherlock’s bedroom door hit the wall. Sherlock returned to the living room via the way he had just left, but was now squeezing a dark, red bag in his hands as his mouth formed a tight seal around the red straw poking out of the top. 

 

John hadn’t seen a blood bag since the first night of his discovery. Sherlock had never brought them into any communal space, even after John knew, and especially not since the reported shortage from Mycroft’s contact. John had known Sherlock’s supply must have been replenished eventually, but he’d also thought they’d had a—routine. John had assumed Sherlock had stopped drinking out of bags.

 

With his lips pursed and cheeks hollowed, the force of Sherlock’s sucking through the straw increased. He was looking anywhere but at John. 

 

“That’s nice. Thanks,” John said, not sure why he was being goaded. Or, more importantly, why it was working. It was Sherlock’s right after all. John ate in front of him all the time, and there wasn’t any difference. John knew that, but his chest still felt like there were two tonnes of weight sitting on it. 

 

Sherlock freed the straw from the inhuman grip his lips had on it, and opened his eyes wide. He looked the picture of false innocence. “I’m just eating John,  _ sometimes I like to _ .” 

 

“Okay. All right,” John said, each word packed with suppressed anger. He had to get out of the flat, before it got ugly. It was a good thing he had a date tonight if Sherlock was going to be like that. The date was a good idea clearly. The after cellar period had been good, for the most part, and wanting more from Sherlock was John’s own fault. He had to start looking for that elsewhere. 

 

John got his coat on, and went out with the woman from the pub.

 

She told him about her life and her family without prompting. She thanked him for simple nice gestures. When they were out of the entree she wanted, she didn’t pout at the server. She was still clearly interested in John, and didn’t seem inclined to turn into an animal and follow him home. 

 

She was exceedingly pleasant, but John was approximately a kilometre away the entire meal; his mind was back at Baker Street and on Sherlock, sulking with his blood bags. 

 

“Do you have a cat?” she asked. John looked up too fast, feeling caught out for not paying attention. 

 

“Uh no, why?” 

 

“Oh, it’s just—you had a few stray black hairs on your shirt, and teeth marks on your arm. I thought you might have a short-haired black cat.” 

 

John ducked his head, and sure enough, the soft white pin prick marks along his wrist were visible, and God, he thought he’d washed this shirt. Sherlock must have sat on him while he was wearing it at one point, and shed. He didn’t even know bats could shed.

 

“Were you just over at someone’s place and their cat got on you? My cat used to do that too,” she said, motioning to his wrist. “Not to hurt though, of course.” 

 

“Do what?” John was still pulling his shirt cuffs down over his somewhat new scars. 

 

“Love bites,” she clarified. 

 

John nearly laughed at the thought of anyone thinking Sherlock’s slip-up was affectionate. She clearly thought it was, anyway. 

 

John didn’t know what to think. 

 

+

 

John initially knew what to think when Sherlock flew into his room later that night, which was very reasonably that he was still dreaming. 

 

The only marked difference from his past dreams was that Sherlock was standing in his doorway as a man rather than a bat, soft light spilling around his tall form. But as Sherlock passed the threshold into John’s room, he changed. The first flap of wings through the air pushed John’s bedroom door back against its frame, and the light was gone again. By the time it occurred to John that he was not at all dreaming, Sherlock was in the air somewhere in the dark. 

 

When John’s eyes had adjusted, Sherlock had settled above his bed. John sat up, back propped up against his pillow, but Sherlock stayed above him as if he were unsure of his welcome. 

 

He was right to be uncertain. John wondered if Sherlock had only changed after stepping through John’s door to circumvent his promise of not coming into John’s bedroom at night as a bat any more. Or, maybe he’d changed so that they wouldn’t talk. Both reasons were annoying. John had sort of hoped for an apology from Sherlock the next time he saw him after that display earlier. 

 

Maybe this was it. 

 

John looked up at the ceiling, wishing Sherlock was actually telepathic, and also not wishing that at all. 

 

_ What? _ John thought.  _ I don’t know what you want. I never know what you want. _

 

Sherlock loosened his grip on the light fixture and changed back into a man as he fell, landing softly on the floor to the left of John’s bed. He stayed crouched there, peering at John over the top of the mattress. 

 

They could have spoken. Instead, John met those inquisitive eyes in the dark and thought,  _ What do you want from me?  _

 

When Sherlock didn’t move, John sighed, and patted the left side of his bed. 

 

Sherlock clambered on, filling the section of mattress that John always left open without thought. 

 

Despite having barged into John’s room without an invitation, Sherlock’s actions were timid, not unlike a wild animal creeping towards him, ready to bolt at any sign of sudden movement from John. John’s righteous anger from the daytime turned to guilt. 

 

John had viewed himself as the more generous one in their partnership, what with sharing his blood and all, but the flip side of that was Sherlock relying on him utterly.

 

Sherlock drinking from a bag at him might have been his way of signalling that he’d been hungry, and on his last legs. John might have just gone out without telling him about his date, and Sherlock could have been out of bags. Maybe it had been inconsiderate of him. It was John after all who had created this dynamic between them where he literally sustained Sherlock. Of course it made Sherlock nervous when John suddenly had plans without him. 

 

If this was Sherlock making the first move towards an apology, John should have been doing his own part to hold out an olive branch. 

 

John lifted his left arm, the almost unnoticeable two white marks facing up. 

 

For an indeterminable amount of time, neither of them moved. John felt a bit like the idiot Sherlock always told him he was. John had watched Sherlock drink earlier that day, Sherlock was probably full now, and this thing that John had started wasn’t why Sherlock had—

 

But as John began to drop his arm, Sherlock grabbed it from the air like a cat catching a fly between their paws, two hands open-palmed against his wrist. Sherlock’s mouth did something complicated. It was difficult to see in the light from the window, and the crack from under his door. 

 

John followed the steps that had been laid out for him in his dreams by placing his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and drawing his face forward. John still couldn’t see Sherlock’s expression, but he could see his teeth extending past his lips. 

 

As always John hardly felt the start of it, like a mosquito bite that went unnoticed until it was already well under way. John supposed that fit; blood drinkers would have similar approaches. 

 

Though bug bites were at least annoying while Sherlock’s was not uncomfortable in the slightest, which was John’s issue. John could no longer hear the sounds of Sherlock’s mouth and tongue sucking against him without having his mind make quick work of overlapping it with another very similar act.

 

Sherlock’s tongue licked from the bottom of John’s palm almost to his elbow, and John thought he might burn up on the spot. John reminded himself for possibly the hundredth time that it was all in his head, that Sherlock didn’t think this was sexual ( _ ‘Not everything’s about sex, John’ _ ), and that he could not let himself get in over his head.

 

It was hard to remember that when Sherlock was in John’s bed, nearly fellating his arm and writhing against the sheets. _ He doesn’t know _ , John told himself, trying to ignore whatever Sherlock’s lower body seemed to be up to. It was meant to be stern, but was mostly just desperate.  _ He’s not like other people, he doesn’t know what this all seems like. _

 

There was a build-up to Sherlock’s drinking that John hadn’t felt before; it came over John in waves, and was visible in the roll of Sherlock’s body against John’s mattress. John heard his own heaving exhales of air, his chest expanding in the confines of his cotton t-shirt, while Sherlock’s breaths came out harshly through his nose, tickling John’s skin, wet with saliva more than it was with blood. John was thankful for the sheets still covering his lap, not that they’d be good enough to hide from the sharp eyes of Sherlock Holmes—at any time other than a feeding anyway. 

 

John couldn't exactly help himself with Sherlock gyrating against the bed till even John was being jostled by his wriggling, and he was about to repeat to himself that Sherlock was just simply  _ enthusiastic _ when—

 

Blood ran down John’s forearm into the dip of his elbow, and Sherlock shifted onto his knees to chase it. On all fours, his loose pyjama bottoms drew tight across his front, and in the low light of the room, there was an unmistakable bulge in the fabric.  

 

John would have been willing to convince himself that he was just projecting, but the tempo John had noticed finally reached its climax, and  seemingly so did Sherlock. There was a groan, obscured only partially by John’s arm, and John watched on, in near disbelief, as a wet spot formed where his eyes had been drawn moments before.

 

“Sherlock,” John said in awe, the sound of his own voice as startling as a shout after the long maintained silence. Sherlock’s head twisted away from John’s arm as if it had been a yell, and in his haste left a few drops of blood, forming a trail down John’s skin and onto the sheets. It was the only time in John’s memory that Sherlock hadn’t conserved every ounce of it. 

 

John sat further up, mouth open and ready to ask Sherlock not to go, but Sherlock was off the bed and across the small room in two long strides. In a move that surprised John not at all, Sherlock disappeared from the situation, bounding down the stairs on two solid feet.

 

_‘Not everything’s about sex, John,’_ rang through his head, and John had never been more confused while also experiencing a moment of realization. Who would have guessed that out of everything Sherlock had told him, that would be the lie. 

 

Still panting for breath, and with the general impression that Sherlock wouldn’t be coming back that night, John slipped a hand past the elastic of his pants. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a brief summary: 
> 
> John: he just doesn't appreciate me [stares into the middle distance]  
> Sherlock: [sweating while furiously googling how to hide chronic boners] 
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter 3 to come some time after the special, but as we'll all be dead by then, I can't make any promises
> 
> ***Edit: check out [this adorable art made for this chapter :'0](http://thetwelfthpanda.tumblr.com/post/136588840773/lol-i-finally-read-kinklocks-batlock-fic-an)


	3. Bloody Aftertaste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from the grave post-TAB, and you get a little bit of both the boys in this next one. The POV switching in this fic ended up being a sandwich, with John as the meat and Sherlock as the bread. 
> 
> As always lots of thanks to my beta Soli <3 Anna wasn't able to make it out for this one, which means less fun Britishisms but we'll make it through somehow

John had been expecting the new world record for most awkward breakfast between flatmates when he woke up that morning, but Sherlock was a no-show. John supposed Sherlock was embarrassed, and was off sticking his head in the sand somewhere. Not in the flat, at any rate. John had knocked on his bedroom door, and hadn’t gotten an answer. It was possible Sherlock was in there, but John didn’t bother finding out. He didn’t want a confrontation with someone who didn’t even want to speak to him through a door. 

 

By the time John left the flat himself, he was running late for work. He’d wasted his usual time spent in the morning getting ready in a daze thinking about where Sherlock was, what the hell last night had meant, what Sherlock leaving after had meant, and then cycling back through. 

 

For example, if blood drinking was inherently sexual, why hadn’t Sherlock just owned up to it? It might have been a bit uncomfortable for him to explain, but he could have at least given John the gist of it. That first time in the cellar, John would have backed off immediately if Sherlock had just said it wasn’t for mates, even in a tight spot. Not to mention every time after that! Sherlock had never begged off saying it wasn’t something appropriate for friends to do. That it was—sexual. 

 

Which was the only explanation John could entertain, without letting previously contained hopes loose from their constraints. Sherlock’s haste to leave afterward, mortified by his body’s reaction, fit the theory. While that would only in part account for John’s reaction to it, given that his mind had been the gutter regardless, that theory still at least explained the general experience.

 

John felt sorry, of course, for pressuring Sherlock into a situation where his body’s natural response to feeding was on display to someone else. John could see now why Sherlock had kept it to his own bedroom, and he felt awful for being involved in anything that embarrassed or humiliated his friend. All the same, John couldn’t help but be a bit mad at him. It was real great of Sherlock to not mention that to John, making him feel as if the act’s similarities to sex had been all in his own head. 

 

Arguing with an imagined Sherlock on the subject while walking to the tube station had the fortunate side effect of releasing some of his pent up frustration; the downside was John at first not noticing the black car trailing him for three city blocks. 

 

Oh, God. Mycroft. 

 

Someone he didn’t recognize stepped out of the car and suggested he get in, which meant a trip to the Diogenes instead of a trip to work. Hopeful that he could get some information out of Mycroft, John let himself to be whisked away to the silent gentleman’s club—even though, if anyone still cared, he did actually have a job. On arrival, John was ushered into a room to wait for Mycroft to grace him with his presence. 

 

While John didn’t find Mycroft intimidating in the slightest, the timing of this intervention was somewhat disconcerting. Mycroft didn’t actually have video surveillance in John’s bedroom, did he? God, the flat was bugged wasn’t it? Sherlock leaving in the middle of night wasn’t strange, but Sherlock running away from John’s upstairs bedroom looking a wreck would be. 

 

That was downright incriminating, in fact. John wondered if Mycroft might be about to take him out back and kill him for getting handsy with baby brother. Maybe the Diogenes was a club for their kind, where humans were brought when they needed to be disposed of. 

 

“I think you’ll find I don’t wish you any harm, John,” Mycroft answered, walking in through a door John hadn’t seen along the back wall of the study, and apparently knowing John’s thoughts just from seeing his back. It was one of Mycroft’s few behaviours that reminded John of his brother. 

 

Mycroft didn’t seem to be lying, which was good news. John turned to find Mycroft watching him with a warmer look than he would have expected if Mycroft had thought he’d taken advantage. 

 

“I think you’ll also find that the Diogenes is open to anyone interested in peace and quiet,” Mycroft continued. “It may surprise you, but humans are equally capable of silence.” 

 

“Sure your kind can’t also just read minds?” John asked. 

 

“Sadly, no. My brother and I are singular in our talents among humans and our people alike.” Mycroft smiled in a way that gave John the impression he’d regret it if he ever suggested Mycroft’s abilities were common amongst any sort of people again. 

 

“While I’m glad you’re not going to kill me,” John said with a tense smile, “might I ask why I’m skipping work when I already have a poor track record?”

 

“You were thinking of quitting anyway,” Mycroft observed, nonplussed by the possibility of John becoming unemployed. “As you should. My brother needs you full time.” 

 

_I’d rather hear that from him_ , John thought. As he wasn’t keen to expose his almost pathetic devotion to Sherlock further, he instead raised his brows at Mycroft, waiting for him to get to the point. 

 

Mycroft waved towards an armchair, indicating John should take a seat. Mycroft carried out the usual pleasantries of offering newspaper and tea trolley. John declined both, and leveled Mycroft with his firmest _answer-my-damn-question_ look. 

 

Mycroft seemed amused, but did get on with it. “I’ve asked you here, John, because my brother left Baker Street last night at half past two in the morning. I don’t suppose you would know anything about that?”

 

John reminded himself to not under any circumstances become embarrassed in front of Mycroft Holmes.

 

“Are we really going to act like that’s unusual?” John asked, sounding more hysteric than he would have liked. 

 

“The hour? Perhaps not. But, without his constant companion? Somewhat.” Mycroft’s odd attempt at an innocent smile after the comment set John’s teeth on edge. 

 

So that’s how it was going to be. John needed to know what Mycroft was willing to tell him, so he would have to suffer through this conversation. God help him. 

 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but all right. Okay. You obviously know Sherlock has been…” John forced himself to continue, though getting up and leaving was a very close thing. “Feeding from me. Recently. You even encouraged it, in fact, with that bloody phone call about shortages.”

 

John couldn’t have been sure, but Mycroft’s amusement seemed to spike before being hidden behind a neutral expression once more. 

 

“I encouraged you to convince him to feed, not to offer yourself up for the cause. You should take some credit for your own creative interpretation.” 

 

John’s mouth ticked to the side. “No, you didn’t tell me to in so many words,” John said, realization dawning, “but it is what you wanted me to do. And I played right into it.” 

 

Mycroft didn’t look caught out, but he didn’t deny it either. He watched John like a cat might observe an injured mouse it already had in its grasp. 

 

John now saw both the lies each Holmes brother had told him, though he didn’t understand the motive behind either. Was being damn confusing genetic?

 

An exhaled breath escaped through his clenched teeth. “There wasn’t ever any shortage with Sherlock’s contact,” John stated, looking away from Mycroft. John’s right leg twitched. “Was there?” 

 

“Not as such, no,” Mycroft said, with no evidence of remorse or shame. “It was only partially a lie if that helps, John, and a necessary one.”

 

John’s temper flared. “How in God’s name was it necessary if there wasn’t ever any shortage!” 

 

Mycroft looked towards the walls around them in a pointed reminder to be quiet. John lowered his voice, wanting answers more than he wanted to be manhandled by the staff. “Only partially a lie, okay, fine. I’ll bite. What aspect of it was true?” 

 

“My brother was starving,” Mycroft said, eyes downcast for the first time in their conversation. “But not for want of prepackaged blood, I assure you.” 

 

John felt himself sink deeper into his state of confusion. “What do you mean? If he had it, why would he be starving himself?”

 

“Why indeed,” Mycroft said, folding his hands across his lap. This had apparently taken the exact turn Mycroft had intended. “Shall I present the facts? Sherlock and you return home, separately, from a case. Afterwards, my brother stops feeding.”

 

Mycroft paused, a smile once again gracing his features. John suspected he was meant to now fill in the blanks, but nothing had been made clearer. 

 

“I don’t understand,” John said, in all honesty. 

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes with less flair than Sherlock did, but still enough for John to catch it. “That’s not entirely true now, is it? I think you do understand John, after what happened last night.” 

 

John cleared his throat, and fixed his eyes to the ornate wallpaper. He didn’t want to know how much Mycroft had deduced about last night or how he’d come to know it, whether it was from the way John’s hair was combed, or by some other means. 

 

However, Mycroft hadn’t just brought him in to be elusive. In the face of omnipotence, John supposed he could test out what he had gathered from the previous night. 

 

“I don’t know why he’d stop drinking from the bags before then, but if—” John attempted to power through it, “if it’s always like that for your kind, I can see why feeding might be…complicated.” 

 

“Always like what for our kind?” Mycroft asked, with a distinct note of ridicule towards the end of the question. 

 

John tilted his head to the side, cracking his neck, and met Mycroft’s gaze with as much steel as he had in him, daring Mycroft to mock him. “Sexual. If it’s always sexual.”

 

Mycroft drew back in his chair in affront. “An interesting conclusion John, but I’m more than capable of keeping a great distance from that, thank you.”

 

So far talking to Mycroft had only served to create more unanswered questions for John to puzzle over. He now didn’t even know what he’d thought he had, coming into it.

 

“Then I really don’t understand. I thought that it must always just be—like that. Every time.” 

 

Mycroft breathed in, as if gathering the strength to discuss sex with his brother’s flatmate. 

 

“For some, it’s an intimate act,” Mycroft agreed. “But it’s not quite that simple, I’m afraid.”

 

“It isn’t for you, I suppose?” John asked, mostly because he’d been prompted to. 

 

“While I do prefer it fresh, I abstain from achieving that by going directly to the source, as we say. _The mess._ ” Mycroft shuddered.

 

“I imagine Sherlock wouldn’t like that either,” John surmised, “but then why stop the bags entirely and go only for the ‘source’?” 

 

Mycroft seemed to weigh his options, and settled into a distant expression before continuing. “I know it might not seem like it now, but Sherlock used to emulate me in all things. Deductions, lifestyle. He grew out of that, of course, but not out of his feeding practices from when he was a child. Many might argue that Mummy and Daddy let him drink solely from bags for far too long. And while that’s not entirely their fault, their own feeding certainly did give him fanciful ideas.” 

 

“Like what?” John asked, acting out his usual role, asking a Holmes questions in the midst of their commentary he was barely able to follow. 

 

“Only feeding from each other, and the occasional bag to introduce new blood to their closed loop system,” Mycroft replied with a sigh. 

 

That possibility hadn’t occurred to John. “You can feed on each other?” 

 

Mycroft inclined his head in confirmation. “It doesn’t come highly recommended, but you can, yes.” 

 

“But what has that to do with Sherlock? You said it affected his outlook on feeding from a young age.” 

 

“I wish I could just tell you, John, really I do,” Mycroft said, and his regret did appear genuine. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to gather the rest of the information you need from my brother. He’ll already be cross with you learning this much from me. Though, surely I’ve given you more than enough to be going on?”

 

Sherlock was going to be pissed off anyway, John might have pointed out, and now he was too for good measure. “Really? After all that, that’s all you’re going tell me?”

 

“Your particular experience John, has everything to do with what is between you and Sherlock,” Mycroft concluded. “Even you can figure out the rest, I imagine.” 

 

John thought that he could, if he were an objective observer. It was different when your fondest hope was on the line. 

 

“What about the scars? You once asked me about them.”

 

Mycroft shook his head. “More topics to probe my brother on, John.” 

 

John could feel a growl beginning to form in his chest. “Tell me, just one more thing. Was he like this before? I mean, was it like this for him?” John swallowed. “Before, with the others?”

 

Mycroft arched one brow, but otherwise was the image of stillness. He gave the impression of forcing himself to remain motionless. 

 

“The others?” he asked.

 

“The other… donors,” John clarified.

 

“Ah.” Mycroft’s eyebrows raised, before his face settled into a pitying expression. “I see. You really are in a pickle, aren’t you John?”

 

John’s leg twitched like it hadn’t done in quite some time. He was itching to stand up and leave, or get into a fight. He hadn’t come all this way to have his feelings so openly derided, though John supposed he didn’t know what else he’d expected from Mycroft. 

 

“You’re going to imply things then, but not going to actually give me any straight answers,” John said, as coolly as he was able. “You don’t know Sherlock as well as you think, you know.” 

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes again, but this time with no interest in hiding the movement. “I know my brother well enough to understand there are some things he’d rather I, of all people, not reveal. I can summon him for answers if you’d prefer. He’s currently hanging in one of his boltholes.”

 

John blinked. “Summon—?” 

 

“No, you’re right,” Mycroft mused, as if John had declined the offer. “Best not. I imagine you’d rather arrive at your clinic sometime today. Aren’t there other people for you to take care of Doctor?”

 

John took his cue to leave. Standing with a stiff nod in Mycroft’s direction, John showed himself out, and followed Mycroft’s suggestion of actually going to work. 

 

John did still manage to ‘take care of’ other people, though he would have been better off not bothering. John paid little attention to the revolving door of patients, which they didn’t enjoy, but his receptionist loved, as for once he didn’t run behind. He really should have already handed in his resignation. Assuming, of course, that Sherlock still wanted him. 

 

For the work. Full time for the work, that was. 

 

John assumed Mycroft’s bolthole comment meant Sherlock wouldn’t return for quite some time, but when John got home, there was a bat waiting for him. 

 

Sherlock was hanging from the bison skull over the desk, which seemed rather pointed, as it was the first thing John saw when he came in through the living room entrance. There were papers strewn out on the desk that hadn’t been there when John had left, which suggested Sherlock had been a man but moments before, and had changed when he heard John walk in. 

 

The silent treatment hadn’t even begun, and John was already sick of it. The night before John had chosen to keep quiet rather than speak, even when Sherlock could have spoken back. Armed with the insight gained from his discussion with Mycroft, John wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice in less than twenty-four hours. 

 

John closed the door behind him when he stepped past the threshold. He had a feeling this might end in shouting. 

 

“Sherlock, come down from there. We need to talk.” 

 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sherlock continued hanging upside down. His chin rested on one bony folded wing as if he were leaning on his fist. Even as a bat, he looked bored with John. 

 

“Sherlock,” John repeated, sharper, and more commanding. 

 

The bat opened its small mouth, and yawned. 

 

“If you don’t change back right now Sherlock, I swear to God, I’ll—” John took a moment to review his options. “I’ll—I’ll _summon_ you.” 

 

With extended wings, the bat dropped from the skull and glided past their desk. Sherlock materialized in between their coffee table and their chairs. His blue dressing gown fanned out around him as if it had been in motion, before settling against his sides. 

 

“That’s not how _summoning_ works, John,” Sherlock raged, each word clipped, and his features twisted in annoyance. John was somewhat taken aback, but held his ground. As a bat, Sherlock had appeared to find John uninteresting, but as a man he had no such cool disinterest. 

 

“Isn’t it?” John asked, a tight smile forming. “I still got you to turn back into yourself.” 

 

Sherlock huffed a loud breath out through his nose, nostrils flaring. “You’ve had a visit with Mycroft this morning, _obviously_.” 

 

“Spot on, as always.” 

 

John had expected Sherlock to be acting on edge after last night, but due to embarrassment, not incandescent rage. The meeting with Mycroft had just been a chat after all, not even instigated by John. He didn’t understand why Sherlock was acting out, or why he found himself feeling in the wrong, even slightly. 

 

When someone orgasmed in his bed the night before, they were usually a bit less furious with him than this the following day. 

 

“And now you want to _talk!_ ” Sherlock declared, arms waving at whatever about John had given that away. “So he’s told you then. Everything.” Sherlock finished this assumption by first turning his head from John, and then beginning to pace within the short amount of space available for it. 

 

Sherlock’s boiling anger had thrown John off, but his manic energy, and apparent nervousness—something about it buoyed John’s hopes.

 

“Not really,” John corrected. “He can’t tell me everything.” 

 

Sherlock laughed, though there was no humour in it. “He certainly can, whether he chooses to do so is another matter entirely.”

 

“You’re right that he knows quite a lot about almost everything, but he can be wrong about you, sometimes. Even if he had cared to share that, which he didn’t.” Attempting to believe he could be right about what was between them, John pushed forward. “There are a few things that maybe only you know.” 

 

Sherlock swallowed. John’s eyes were drawn to the movement, and to the pale column of his throat.

 

“Such as?” Sherlock asked. His pacing had stopped, but his tone was still sharp as a knife. 

 

John struggled to look away from his neck. “You tell me.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’d rather hear what Mycroft clearly deemed absolutely necessary for you to know.”

 

“You can’t guess?” John asked, surprised. 

 

“Not enough data!” Sherlock shouted. “Just tell me! What did he say to you?” 

 

“Well,” John said, lowering his voice in the hopes of calming Sherlock down, “He thinks you drink from bags still because of him, and his influence over you, whatever that might have been. And that your outlook on feeding is also still affected by your parents.” 

 

Sherlock was silent for a spell, head turned away from John. He was still in front of his leather armchair. 

 

“Am I right,” John started, biting his lower lip. His voice was rough when he continued. “Am I right in thinking that it—means something?” 

 

Sherlock’s head snapped towards him like he’d fired a gun, and his eyes proceeded to jump across John’s face, never settling on one point for long. John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was looking for, or what he found. He couldn’t read Sherlock’s expression, though he imagined his was an open book. 

 

Beyond his rapid eye movements, Sherlock did not offer a response. 

 

_‘You’ll have to gather the rest of the information you need from my brother,’_ Mycroft had said. John wasn’t sure it was getting him anywhere. He tried a different tact.

 

“Or, is it just always like... that?” John asked, eyes downcast, and rocking back on his heels. “It’s happened before with people you’ve—um—drank from?” 

 

John’s eyes darted up at the end of the question, and just managed to catch the start of Sherlock’s jaw dropping open. 

 

“Surely, Mycroft told you about that,” Sherlock said in a whisper, as if speaking to himself rather than John. “He does so love to rub it in.” 

 

“Uh, no,” John said, clipped. He was a bit tired of the Holmes brothers’ feud. “He didn’t tell me that. Said I had to ask you.”

 

Sherlock’s tense features relaxed. John hadn’t realized Sherlock’s shoulders had almost been up to his ears until they lowered. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the side, and then back and forth. His mouth dropped open again and his throat seemed to be working hard to swallow. In a hushed voice, Sherlock said, “There were no others.” 

 

“No...?” John’s image of the faceless, lucky sod went up in a puff of smoke. If John’s imagination had been more accurate, the lucky sod should have turned into him. “No others?” 

 

Sherlock shook his head once, uncoordinated and twitchy. 

 

“You mean you’ve never—?” John asked, still having trouble processing it. “You’d never drank from a human, ever, before? Aside from me?”

 

Sherlock groaned. “Yes, John!” he snapped, manic energy returning. When not watching him, Sherlock looked ready to escape the conversation, a behaviour John had come to expect. Sherlock might turn into a bat at any minute, and then John would have to spend the rest of the day chasing after stray cats. 

 

“Just, calm down,” John said stepping forward. “And, while you’re at, don’t leave in a huff.”

 

“Leave in a _huff?_ You telling _me_ not to leave in a—oh, that’s rich.” Sherlock was back to pacing, which was better than an exit, but John found the comment a tad unfair. 

 

“It really isn’t, actually. You’re the one who always runs off!” Did Sherlock really have so little self-awareness?

 

“Me? You’re the one always leaving, going out with a friend, or on a _date!_ You went on one just last night, or don’t you remember? With...whatever her name was.”

 

John thought it was pretty glib of Sherlock to ask if he remembered last night. John also realized he didn’t remember his date’s name, either. 

 

“Leaving the flat to go out on a date doesn’t mean leaving, permanently,” John said, his voice raising against his will towards the end. “Do you expect me to just be here, all the time, whenever you decide you have a need of me?” 

 

“Don’t be _stupid!_ It does mean leaving, John, you’re just being obtuse on purpose.” 

 

John blinked, prepared to defend that he wasn’t being _anything_ on purpose, but Sherlock lunged into his space as he was often wont to do, and John’s protest was cut off at the knees. 

 

“I’ll spell it out for you!” Sherlock cried out, listing off his items with his long fingers in John’s face. “Dating leads to relationships, which leads to commitment, which leads to _leaving_ —”

 

There was at most a few inches separating them once Sherlock had stepped towards him and leaned down into his face, which made it far easier than John could have ever imagined to close the space between them. Sherlock’s lips were still parted in a shout when John leaned up on his toes to press his mouth to them, tipping the kiss into open-mouthed and messy from the start. Sherlock let out a guttural sound from deep in his chest at the first contact, and then a soft sigh, quiet and exhaled against John’s lips. 

 

John did his own part to step closer, with his body soon slotted against Sherlock’s. Sherlock was hot to touch, and his rapid breathing made his chest heave against John’s. John kissed his slack-jawed mouth without pause, till two of Sherlock’s fingers grasped the sleeve of his shirt at his wrist. John drew back at the touch, his breath catching in his throat.

 

Sherlock looked shattered. John was bowled over by the difference between the anger he’d come home to and this, Sherlock’s nervous energy melting into the softest, fondest affection. John waited for Sherlock to tell him he was wrong, that he’d misunderstood everything, that he’d mucked everything up. 

 

“John,” was all Sherlock said. When Sherlock tried to say his name a second time, John kissed him before he could finish. 

 

It was hard to remember that he still had unanswered questions, when the only thing he’d ever truly hoped to be the case turned out to have been true. Sherlock panted into his mouth and John knew, he knew it hadn’t ever been about the feeding. It was about the two of them.

 

Thinking on the feeding did however, at last, remind him about the teeth marks. 

 

“Sherlock,” John tried to say. Once Sherlock was started, he was like a train hurtling down the tracks, taking as many kisses from John as he was able. “Sherlock, Sherlock—”

 

“Oh, God, _what?_ ” Sherlock’s hands slid from where they had been holding his face, down to his shoulders, and then back up along to his neck. John was being pawed at. He found he rather liked it. 

 

John held up his wrist, his shirt sleeve slipping down far enough to reveal two small white marks. “Oh,” Sherlock said, head twisted to look. His restless hands settled on gripping at John’s lapels. 

 

Well, that confirmed they meant more than just Sherlock being sloppy. 

 

“Yes, oh. I wasn’t lying when I said your brother barely told me anything. What are they?”

 

“I didn’t mean to do it, John,” Sherlock insisted, letting go of John’s shirt to hold John’s arm, and touched the marks with his other hand. “They just sort of happened.”

 

John kissed him again, because he could. His curiosity was secondary now to everything else, but he was still interested in knowing. “Tell me what just sort of happened.”

 

“You,” Sherlock said, with a smile. “But I’ll tell you all the same.” 

 

 

+

  

 

It perhaps went without saying that Sherlock had not expected the single most embarrassing thing to ever happen to him in his entire life to result in a favourable turn of events. 

 

That Sherlock had entered into a _feeding_ arrangement with John, fully aware of how it would end, made his eventual loss of control far worse than if he’d simply been short-sighted. Sherlock had sanctioned his own humiliation. 

 

Following the intensity of his arousal in the cellar, Sherlock resolved to never allow a repeat performance. This, however, presented a unique challenge. 

 

He was still living and working with John, which meant being taunted by the constant presence of the willing donor who had contributed to the most incredible feeding experience of his life. It was fortunate that Sherlock was rational, _in control_ , and able to hold his urges at bay. 

 

But the cold blood in the fridge, never particularly appealing to begin with, had since been rendered indescribably offensive. After the gift of drinking John’s potent blood—directly from his proffered arm, no less—he couldn’t even begin to imagine returning to feeding on some unknown human’s fluids. Drinking from someone _not John_ made him feel sick to his empty stomach. 

 

Even more repulsive than the blood he still had on hand was Mycroft’s incessant calling, which he later regretted not nipping in the bud. Allowing Mycroft the opportunity to speak with John about his feeding or lack thereof had been a great oversight. Mycroft stuck his nose in it, somehow convincing John to suggest they give it another go at home if he liked, as if it were watching the second episode of a show they’d both moderately enjoyed. 

 

And Sherlock was weak to him. With his hunger at an all time high, John was too enticing to turn down, despite Sherlock knowing the dangers. John was curious about it clearly, and wanted another try at it, and Sherlock was endlessly sympathetic to curiosity. Sherlock had thought loose clothing and a well-timed exit would save him the embarrassment of John ever knowing what he did to him. 

 

From there, it was a slippery slope. Almost as soon as John’s blood entered Sherlock’s mouth, it would flood further south. After the first time in the cellar, Sherlock had barely needed more than the first touch of his hand on himself in the privacy of his room to bring himself relief. That pattern continued, and each time Sherlock allowed himself to drink longer, he brought himself closer to John noticing. 

 

Eventually the ‘relief’ he found from his own fumbling was no relief at all. He would come too close while drinking John in, leave in a rush to make a mess of himself, and then be left in his room deeply unsatisfied by the entire affair. He would think of John’s hand against his jaw, in his hair, the smell of his skin, and he would ache. It was beyond idiotic to want to stay for longer, but he hated being away from John after being so close; it felt like a punishment after having accepted what John willingly offered. 

 

Sherlock had never seen any reason before to mill about the rest of the flat in his other form. But, after one feeding, he recalled how softly John had spoken to him and treated him that night John had found him in his bedroom. It was a foolish idea, what with John now knowing it was him of course, but Sherlock still wondered… 

 

As it turned out, as an alternative to lying alone on his bed, nothing could beat joining John in the living room as a bat. 

 

Sherlock could be as near to John as he pleased, and he wasn’t asked to answer for his actions. He couldn’t recall why he’d thought it foolish; it was the perfect idea, an excellent one in fact. John would let him rest on his shoulders or even once in his pocket, and feed him sweet things. John would have never spoiled him like that otherwise. Sherlock wondered if changing into his other form to experience John’s altered behaviour would have counted as one of those manipulation things—but John knew it was him, so surely it wasn’t? 

 

It was the comfortableness of this new arrangement that let Sherlock forget why he’d been hesitant in the first place, and why he absolutely should not have ever agreed to it. 

 

He should have stopped when the marks stayed on John’s wrist, no matter how much he licked the skin. He was thankful John knew so little of his people, as it was the most incriminating evidence as to the true nature of his feelings to date. He should have stopped, but seeing the evidence of how well suited they were for one another every time he fed only heightened the experience. The sight of the marks lowered his boundaries further, when it should have raised them. 

 

He might have been safe continuing from that point on, except for the minor detail of flying perhaps a bit off the handle at the sight of John’s date shoes and stubble and use of cologne. This had the unfortunate side effect of him drinking someone else’s God awful blood for the first time in weeks, and that he was unable to stay away from John that evening. He had climbed into John’s bed and had turned their simple routine into a sexual encounter, which John didn’t know was sexual because Sherlock had explicitly told him it wasn’t. Sherlock was well aware that this would have been classified as a not good thing, and had hung in his bolthole in the clock tower till he was no longer a coward. 

 

How Mycroft embarrassing him even further—telling John about his ruddy childhood, and their parents!—had resulted in this, now, with John kissing him senseless, was still unclear.

 

John had asked about the marks. And Sherlock was going to tell him, he was going to, just as soon as he could make himself stop kissing John. 

 

“My parents have them,” Sherlock blurted out. Fortunately John seemed to find that helpful, rather than confusing. 

 

“Then, your own kind can have them,” John said, eyeing his wrist for a moment. “So, it’s not like a sign of...ownership? ‘This human is my blood bag’ sort of thing?”

 

“For God’s sake, John,” Sherlock admonished, taken aback. While the idea of…owning one another…was pleasant, he had hoped John didn’t think him capable of doing something like that without consent. 

 

“No, it’s more an indication of long-term sharing compatibility. It normally forms after an agreement for an on-going commitment is arranged between the two parties. I wasn’t—I didn’t expect them to appear.” 

 

Sherlock tucked his chin into his neck. It hadn’t occurred to him that, after such a short time….

 

When he looked back up, John was grinning at him. Why? Why was he grinning? 

 

“So…,” John started, still smiling in that strange way. “Sort of like wearing a wedding ring? Or an engagement ring?” 

 

Sherlock felt his eyelashes blinking fast. He wasn’t….wrong. “Um. Yes. Rather like, that.”

 

John hummed, eyes fixated on his neck, for some reason. “Seems unfair that only I have them,” John commented, looking thoughtful. 

 

Sherlock was floored. “What?” 

 

“Well, with only me having them, feels a bit like being a Victorian-era wife. You should be marked by me in some way,” John said with a smile, and Sherlock realized now that his grin was—it was—downright _filthy._

 

Sherlock felt heat pool, warm and sweet, in his belly. The way John talked about the compatibility signs did make them sound like ownership. “Yes,” Sherlock conceded, with a small smile of his own. “It would only be fair, of course.” 

 

“It would be. I’ll have to think of a human equivalent.” John reached for Sherlock’s hand still touching his wrist, smoothing his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. “I’ll try to be creative.” 

 

Sherlock wasn’t able to respond beyond further fluttering of his eyelashes, as John leaned forward and began to leave a trail of wet kisses along Sherlock’s neck. The last press of lips underneath his chin was followed by a light sucking. Sherlock gasped, and he could feel John’s smile against his skin. 

 

With John’s tongue dipping back down to his carotid, Sherlock somehow managed, “Now who’s the vampire?”, causing John to nearly dissolve into laughter. 

 

Sherlock ducked his head to giggle along with him, but John was gripping his shoulder, bringing Sherlock eye-level with his unfaded teeth marks. His laughter caught in his throat. He was allowed now, so Sherlock followed his instinct to press his lips to one single, small mark. 

 

Another slight turn of his head, and he was looking into John’s eyes. There was as much mirrored back at him as he was feeling. He felt grounded and safe, completely. 

 

John’s hands slid down his arms till they reached his, and claimed them; they were much smaller than his, but firm as they tugged him to the sofa. Sherlock sank down onto it without prompting, and John sat next to him, left knee tapping against Sherlock’s right. 

 

Sherlock turned his head, hoping for a kiss, but was stopped by the look on John’s face. John opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again before uttering a sound. John searched his face, a role reversal that didn’t go unnoticed, and just as he had the night before, offered Sherlock his wrist. Sherlock bent his head to kiss it once more without question. He understood what John was asking; this was familiar to John, comfortable. Sherlock wasn’t hungry in the traditional sense, but he would never turn down anything John needed from him. 

 

Sherlock lined up as best he could with his past marks, and at the first sinking of his teeth into John’s skin, made a low sound in his throat. He allowed himself to make all the noise he wanted; John had kissed him on the mouth and neck, and wanted to own him. He no longer needed to contain the effect John had on him. 

 

“God,” John gasped, and Sherlock wanted much more of that, and more of John. He wanted John every way he could have him, and every way John could have him. Sherlock licked at the wound until the bleeding stopped, and looked up at John from beneath his lashes.

 

“John, can I...? From another place?” Sherlock asked. Sherlock watched as John’s pupils dilated, and his breath left his lungs in one long exhale. A moment later, almost unnoticeable, John’s legs shifted apart. 

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

“Yeah, God wherever, whatever you want Sherlock,” John said in a rush, pulling him up from his arm and aiming for another kiss. Sherlock was still distracted by the story John’s body had told and allowed himself to be drawn in, until he remembered where his mouth had just been, and drew back. When John furrowed his brow, seconds away from feeling hurt by the rejection, Sherlock pointed to his mouth. 

 

“There’s still…,” he waved around his lips. “Mess.” Drinking blood didn’t make for fresh breath, which he understood people looked for in a kissing partner. 

 

John smiled in apparent relief, and swept at the side of Sherlock’s mouth with the pad of his thumb. Sherlock imagined that meant John didn’t mind, and allowed himself to be drawn back into John’s space, sucking the tip of John’s thumb into his mouth for good measure. 

 

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said. His thumb pulled away to be replaced by his mouth, and Sherlock let him have his bloody kiss. Sherlock melted into it, for a spell. His mind soon wandered to John’s permission, and his telling leg movements. 

 

Without further ado, Sherlock pressed one more chaste kiss to John’s lips, and pressed his feet to the coffee table to push it further away from the sofa. John made a funny face at him for it, but in the new space provided, Sherlock was able to slide to his knees on the floor and maneuver between John’s splayed legs. John stopped making a funny face, then. 

 

Now that Sherlock had arrived at his destination, he realized he wasn’t sure the appropriate way to go about any of it. His usually multi-tasking, over-observing mind was focussed ( _John, John, John_ ), the high of drinking fresh blood having not yet worn off. His hands luckily seemed able to get on without him well enough, and his dexterity was at least still intact as they undid John’s button and fly. 

 

With a little help from John and his own eagerness, John’s jeans and pants were pulled down John’s thighs and past his knees in a flash. Sherlock lost track of where the trousers ended up after that, as he at once had a full, unobstructed view of John’s cock. Sherlock thanked every God he didn’t believe in that he hadn’t spoiled the first sight of it for himself by peaking during the shower incident. 

 

Though he doubted it would have looked like this then—the glistening head exposed, foreskin pulled back, proportionally perfect. Sherlock might have continued to wax poetic on the subject internally, but John’s hand was touching the back of his head. 

 

Sherlock lifted his eyes to John’s, and nodded. John’s light touch against his scalp was the same as it was when he fed, and guided him right where he wanted to go. Sherlock nosed his way along John’s left inner thigh, breathing him in, John’s leg hairs tickling his cheek. 

 

“May I?” he asked. John’s hand carded through his curls at the same time as he gave his hushed permission. Sherlock dug in. 

 

His mouth flooded with the familiar taste, yet warmer and thicker, the blood flowing freer from John’s groin. Sherlock felt gluttonous; he’d never been so full up in his life.

 

Sherlock might have stayed drinking in little sips for as long as John would let him, but was distracted by a light tap against his forehead. Twisting his head to the side, Sherlock almost giggled. John’s cock, which had apparently only been on its way to hard, was now fully erect and making itself difficult to be ignored. 

 

“May I?” Sherlock asked again, and John’s permission was given a second time with a grunt. 

 

Sherlock attempted to follow their usual routine that John liked so well, though with considerably less biting. Sherlock opened his mouth wide, and swallowed as much of John down as he was able. He then pulled off to lick along his length, especially at the base, where his mouth hadn’t made it all the way down. 

 

He imagined this was somewhat similar to his usual drinking and licking pattern, and John seemed to respond with similar approval; John had shouted the first time Sherlock took him into his mouth, and shook the second. Sherlock’s mouth had never been stretched wider, but John’s noises and twitching cock were well worth it. A bead of pre-come forming at the tip and choked off groans were no different to John’s praise at a crime scene, providing positive feedback unprompted each step of the way. 

 

Sherlock continued his alternating pattern of swallowing and licking, loving the feeling of John’s hand still in his hair, until it was John tugging. It became a soft, guiding touch, and John whispered, “Enough teasing, Sherlock, please—” 

 

Sherlock hadn’t realized he’d been teasing, but he no longer pulled his mouth off for licks, instead focusing on moving in time to the slight thrusting of John’s hips. John’s grunting increased, along with his repetition of Sherlock’s name, which Sherlock approved of a great deal. 

 

Sherlock felt in sync with John’s guttural praise and approval; the more John groaned, the closer Sherlock was to bringing him to the brink. Sherlock thought of all the times he had come just from thinking of being near John, and how he had even come in front of John last night from having the real thing. The payback was exquisite. 

 

John’s hand was tapping at the back of his head in warning, but Sherlock was hardly going to become squeamish about swallowing John’s bodily fluids now. 

 

John’s moan when he came was even better than hearing him hum or sing in the shower. As Sherlock attempted to swallow without making a further mess of himself, he wondered if there were more of these noises, and how he would manage to get John to make them all. 

 

As soon as Sherlock pulled off, John’s hands were scrambling for him. Sherlock found himself lifted from the floor by hands hooked underneath his arms, and deposited on the sofa. Sherlock spread his legs to straddle John’s nude thighs and let himself be kissed, and kissed, and kissed. 

 

“That was incredible,” John said once his enthusiasm for Sherlock’s mouth had calmed, though only slightly. Sherlock preened, even with John’s open mouth against his. John’s hand settled on his lower back, and moved lower for a grope. “Now, what do you want, hmm?”

 

“Reciprocation,” Sherlock murmured, his voice lower than even he’d ever heard it. John had handed himself over to Sherlock, let him in so many times, and Sherlock wanted the same. He wanted John to push through, like his teeth through John’s skin. 

 

John didn’t seem to understand his meaning, as he laughed a little at his reply. “Well, yeah, that can be arranged.” John’s hand drifted along his side, meandering to his front. 

 

“I mean,” Sherlock said, slanting his mouth over John’s cheek, “that I’m a bit tired of being the one doing all the penetrating.” 

 

John laughed again, and Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it. It was low, and—almost dirty. He’d never heard John laugh like that. 

 

“I’m serious,” Sherlock repeated. He felt the need to clarify, in case John still didn’t understand. His face was hot, even hotter where it was pressed against John’s, but he kept it planted there. If John was laughing at him, he didn’t want to see it. 

 

John’s breath fanned across his cheek at an increased rate, which was at least promising. 

 

“Penetr—? Okay. Yeah,” John said. He cleared his throat. Sherlock pulled back. He had changed his mind, he wanted to see John’s face now, and was glad that he did. John was more than interested in the suggestion, with his dark eyes and his ears tinged pink. 

 

Sherlock smiled, pleased. “Some time today, John.” 

 

“Right,” John said, the flush spreading to his cheeks. “You know I won’t be able to…” He motioned to his crotch, where his spent cock was nestled against his thigh.

 

“Yes John, I’m quite aware of refractory periods. Good thing that’s not your only appendage.”

 

“Yes, all right, no need to be a smart arse. Do we have anything on hand for…?” 

 

“Petroleum jelly, in the shoe box under the desk. Hurry up,” Sherlock instructed while removing himself from John's lap with some regret. 

 

“I suppose I’m getting it then,” John said, but he was smiling while he pulled his jeans back on. And he did hurry over to get the box, right where Sherlock had said he would find it, and began rifling through its contents. “You know, everyone else alive just calls it Vaseline,” John commented. 

 

Sherlock didn’t respond, as he was occupied with undressing himself at the fastest rate he was capable. 

 

“Oh,” John said when he turned around. His eyes roamed Sherlock’s body without any pretense of trying to hide it, lingering in some places more than others. Sherlock beamed. 

 

“I could have—um—helped with that.”

 

“Another time perhaps,” Sherlock said, reaching down to remove his last sock. “Come back to the sofa now please, I want to sit on you again.” 

 

John laughed in disbelief, but he came back to the sofa smiling wider than ever. If Sherlock had known oral sex was all it took to put John Watson in a good mood with him, he might have initiated it sooner. 

 

John settled back down onto the sofa, and Sherlock returned to his rightful place in John’s lap. Sherlock didn’t have time to consider whether he should be self-conscious about his jutting erection being inches from John’s button-up shirt, as John pulled him into a lovely kiss as soon as he was close enough. John gripped his sides, tugging him in till the head of his cock made contact with John’s abdomen. Sherlock moaned and sank down onto John’s legs, rubbing against him as he slid down, no longer interested in holding his own weight. 

 

“No, no, budge up,” John directed with a hand to his hip. Sherlock did as he was told, though his legs protested. Pressed as he was to John’s front, Sherlock could only listen to the cap of the petroleum jelly being popped open in anticipation. Sherlock groaned at the soft, slick sound of John rubbing it across his fingers, and from having to keep himself lifted over John’s lap. 

 

John’s lubricated fingers first made contact with his lower back. Sherlock held his breath as they trailed down the crack of his arse, sliding and teasing near where he wanted them. The fingers just grazed his entrance as they continued down to press against his perineum. When they did at last retrace their steps, it was to circle his hole in soft, maddening touches, lubricating the outside, but not pressing in. 

 

“John, I think I did say to hurry,” Sherlock said, tilting back into the light touch. His demand lost most of its strength when delivered softer than a panted breath. 

 

John’s fingers stopped moving altogether. “Sorry, but I don’t usually do this with someone facing me.”

 

“You’re a doctor, John!” Sherlock snapped, ready to reach back and guide John in himself. “Figure it out—!” 

 

Sherlock’s command was cut short as John at last did as he was told, the tip of his index finger sinking home. Sherlock let out a choked garble of a sound as he bore down, pushing himself back into the new sensation. 

 

Sherlock stayed still once John was in to his knuckle, giving himself time to become accustomed to the stretch. John was panting against his neck, as if he were the one being opened up. Sherlock lowered his chin, desperate to see what he hoped would be John’s awed expression, and John delivered. Distracted by John's blue, blue eyes, Sherlock relaxed further. John was able to move his finger, slow and careful, in and almost all the way out. 

 

Sherlock squirmed. Even though his body was still adjusting, he wanted John deeper. John’s grip on his hip was loose enough for Sherlock to rock back onto his finger, and then grind forward into his stomach. Sherlock repeated the motion, pushing himself into the penetration once more, and thrusting forward. John pulled him in time with his shifting hips, and then held him there, rubbing Sherlock’s cock over the front of his shirt. Sherlock moaned, low and soft, John’s hand on his hip now as firm as iron. A sticky spot was going to form where the head of his cock was leaking; he was going to make John messy, and John wanted him to. 

 

Sherlock was hyper-focused on the almost too much friction of John’s clothes against his erection, until John’s slicked finger began to piston in and out. Sherlock could feel the stretch at his rim each time John nearly dragged his finger back out, always leaving just the tip inside. Without his conscious permission, his hips began to grind in small circles against John’s stomach while the finger fucked him slow and dirty. 

 

Sherlock didn’t know how much time had passed, which was an unusual realization, but it was enough for him to be dripping, and whining into John’s shoulder. “More,” he gasped. “John, more.”

 

“More how?” Even in his blissed out state, Sherlock was happy to hear John’s voice was as wrecked as he was.

 

Sherlock ducked his head to the side on a long groan, and caught a glimpse of the two puncture marks on John’s wrist. ‘Human equivalent’ indeed. “Two, John,” he demanded. “Please. Add another one.” 

 

John paused, having to pull out to coat his other finger, and Sherlock whined at the loss without shame. “Just give me a second,” John whispered, and the pressure was back again, the tips of two fingers pressing in against his loosened hole, until the muscle relented.

 

“Oh, God!” Sherlock cried out. The thickness was perfect, but still he wanted more, in other dimensions. Two fingers twisting into him made him want John deeper, made him want to be bent in half while John filled him. His legs spread without conscious decision, knees slipping out along the sofa as he wrapped his arms around John’s neck. As John’s mouth pressed quick kisses to the hollow of his throat, John’s two fingers crooked inside, rubbing at just the right spot. Sherlock whimpered, his hips thrusting and smearing a wet spot along John's front. John kissed his collarbone, and continued to stimulate his prostate. 

 

“Touch yourself,” John said, and Sherlock raced to comply. Reaching down, Sherlock took himself in hand and stroked, focusing on the head of his cock with his thumb. He felt it building up, like John’s blood rushing out after the first piercing of his teeth. 

 

John’s hand left his side to join his just in time to catch the first spurt of semen, crying out with him when he came. Without John’s steadying grip on his hip, Sherlock fell forward, his head hanging over John’s shoulder like a limp rag while his cock twitched against John’s stomach. 

 

Sherlock didn’t pay attention to much after that. His only response was a grunt when John’s fingers slipped out, and a growl of protest when John stretched away from him to get something to clean off his hand. 

 

While Sherlock was still loose-limbed and hazy-headed, John tugged his dressing gown back around him, tying the sash about his waist and laying him down along the sofa. Sherlock would have protested at being man-handled, but John slid between him and the back of the sofa soon after, which made the arrangement more than acceptable. John’s right arm was slung over his torso and his back was to John’s chest, and it felt like everything Sherlock hadn’t known to want after each time he had fed, even better than perching on John’s neck as a bat. The simple joy of John near him, touching him, with no intention of going anywhere, could not be beaten. 

 

“So, I was right then,” John remarked after several minutes had passed (who was counting?), speaking into his ear. It tickled, in a nice way. 

 

“Yes, John, you’re always right,” Sherlock mumbled, and then paused, nose scrunching. “Sorry, what were you right about this time?” 

 

“Can I have that down in writing? ‘John’s always right.’” John’s mouth kept brushing his ear, which felt like kisses each time he spoke. 

 

Sherlock wiggled his bum back into John’s legs for not answering him. “Hmm, no, you can’t. But tell me what you were right about.” 

 

John laughed, before saying, “About it being a fetish.”

 

Sherlock whipped his head around to glare at John over his shoulder. The straight line of John’s mouth was resisting turning up the corners. When Sherlock burst into laughter, John’s mouth stopped resisting. 

 

“Shut up!” Sherlock cried out while still in stitches, reaching back to whap John on the thigh. 

 

John kissed the back of his neck. “I suppose this means after you feed on me, you won’t be leaving right after any more?”

 

Sherlock hummed, a rumbling sound from deep in his chest. “If this is going to be the follow-up each time, I think not, no.” 

 

“Does that mean I’ve lost my bat companion around the flat?” John teased. “I was rather coming to like having him around.” 

 

Sherlock’s face hurt from smiling so much; he couldn’t even remember ever smiling for so long. “Oh, he might make the occasional reappearance.” 

 

Having already enjoyed John’s arms around him for an almost sufficient period of time, Sherlock transformed within them just to hear John’s gasp, followed by more laughter. 

 

Sherlock flew off the sofa, taking one turn about the room, before landing onto John’s outstretched palms. John scratched at the back of his neck, and Sherlock rather wished bats could purr. 

 

“God, this is strange, isn’t it?” John asked. Sherlock’s wings fluttered as some of his past doubt returned. He wasn’t sure if John expected an answer. 

 

As if sensing his unease, John went on to clarify, “Don’t change, of course, ever, you odd little thing. I mean—do change back into a person, at some point, but—”

 

Sherlock bowed his head in understanding, and to put John out of his misery. John rubbed the edge of his wing, and that felt quite nice indeed. 

 

In Sherlock’s defence, John had been distracting him, so he missed the rather tell-tale sound of soft feet on the stairs. He didn’t notice they had company until there was a knock at the living room door, followed in quick succession by a “hoo-hoo!” 

 

Mrs Hudson strolled in without waiting for an answer. Sherlock would have to impress upon herin the future to no longer do that, in light of recent developments, unless she wanted to get an eye-full. 

 

Sherlock would have told her so directly, but there wasn’t much he could say as a bat, nor over the sound of her screeching. 

 

For months after, all John would have to say was ‘hoo-hoo’ while making an exaggerated facial expression of horror for Sherlock to fall to pieces laughing. Incidentally, Mrs Hudson learned to not come into the flat when the door was closed, without needing to be told, giving them free run of the flat for any activities they desired. Now if Sherlock needed to retreat to his bedroom to sate his body’s needs, it was because they involved John, and quite a bit more nudity. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming out <3
> 
> Oh, and [photoshopped bat Sherlock for anyone curious](http://kinklock.tumblr.com/post/136258339310/the-edges-could-use-to-be-blended-better-but)


	4. Meet the Bats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Allison & Falka, as promised, here's a bonus chapter of established relationship bat slapstick comedy, the halloween special episode, bat 4: far from the maddening bat. 
> 
> If you read the first three chapters and are now here,.... actually I guess this whole fic must be like this so you already know the deal. 
> 
> thanks to Bruna for beta reading this and still being my friend after

The day John made his most egregious error began like any other. Or, rather, like any other since his life with Sherlock had begun, which in this case was a frantic visit from the Yard at an ungodly hour, followed by turning one wall of 221B into a yarn and newspaper cut-out collage, followed by John and Sherlock splitting up to investigate separate leads. 

 

After his interview with his assigned witness was cut short, John had come home, exhausted and taskless, to an empty flat. John presumed that Sherlock was still following his lead uptown, until he spotted the small, black bat hanging in the corner of the kitchen, giving John a bit of a start.

 

“You could have told me you were done early,” John said, while popping his head into the fridge. He was more than used to Sherlock doing the bat routine at this point. “We might have met up somewhere for me to grab a bite. Now it’s old Chinese for me, which should probably be binned rather than eaten.”

 

Sherlock relaxing around the flat as a bat had become a regular occurrence at Baker Street. John couldn’t tell if it was for Sherlock’s own amusement or for John’s, but regardless, it was part of their domestic routine. 

 

Sherlock claimed that John’s ease and comfort with him as a bat could come in handy for a case. They practised having John conceal Sherlock on his person, meaning Sherlock spent a great deal of time in his pockets to find out what worked best, and how he might stay hidden there for as long as possible. Sherlock also claimed that John was a terrible liar, and that becoming used to the feeling of a bat shifting around would help them from blowing their cover. 

 

John thought this was all a load of shit, but if Sherlock wasn’t able to admit he just liked sitting in his pocket, John didn’t feel the need to call him out on it. 

 

However Sherlock still did not want anyone other than John to see him in bat form, so when John heard Mrs Hudson letting in and greeting someone downstairs, he took his usual cue to hide Sherlock. Standing on tiptoes, John reached for the bat hanging above the shelf, though Sherlock flapped his wings at him. 

 

“We agreed,” John reminded him, putting one knee up on the counter to grab him. “No more terrifying the landlady. One more shock and she’ll have a heart attack I guarantee.” 

 

After some more wrangling, John succeeded in getting Sherlock into his front pocket, though it was the most reluctant Sherlock had ever been about the exercise. 

 

“Do you want to make a scene?” John whispered, just as Greg walked in through the door to the kitchen. 

 

And behind him was—Sherlock.

 

John stared at them both, unblinking. 

 

“Hullo John,” Greg said. “I hope you had better luck than us with your interview.” 

 

“Uh, not so much,” John replied, somewhat distracted by the wiggling in his pocket. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes were on the front of John’s shirt in an instant. Then, ridiculously, his bottom lip jutted out like it’d been stung. 

 

“John,” Sherlock said—and God it was his ‘ _ I’m about to be a prick to you and sulk for at least three days’ _ voice. “I believe you have something in your pocket.”

 

At that moment, the bat who was not Sherlock broke free from its pocket prison, climbed half an inch further up John’s shirt, and then flew towards the sitting room. 

 

“Jesus Christ!” was Greg’s contribution, while Sherlock’s glaring at John continued without interruption. John crossed the length of their living room to open a window, and after a few minutes more of Greg covering his head and John waving his arms, the impersonator was out of their flat. 

 

“Well, now that that’s been dealt with.” Closing the window once more, John turned to find Greg wearing a look of total perplexion.  

 

“Right,” Greg said. “But—sorry—what was it doing in your shirt?” 

 

Sherlock cut in, still standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “Lestrade, as John was as unsuccessful as you and I were, feel free to head back to the Yard.”

 

John shot Sherlock a look, though he also wanted Greg out of the flat so he wouldn’t have to explain that encounter. 

 

“You’re welcome to stay for a bit if you like, obviously,” John clarified but Greg waved him off, heading out shortly after, muttering about bats. 

 

Sherlock, at last, moved from the door. He hung up his coat and unwound his scarf with jerky movements, and John knew petulance when he saw it. 

 

“Carry around many bats do you?” Sherlock asked, as if indifferent. 

 

John had been waiting for it, ready with a groan. “I thought that bat was you, obviously.”

 

Sherlock sputtered. “I don’t look anything like that!”

 

“Well, I wasn’t looking too closely!” Unbelievable, he was being forced onto the defensive. “I heard voices downstairs, I saw a bat, I grabbed it.”

 

Sherlock threw himself down into his grey armchair and pulled out his phone, signalling the conversation was now over. John knew better. 

 

He sat down across, and leaned forward on his knees, waiting. Sherlock scrolled, one leg crossed over the other. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock said, “He didn’t have my neck fur,” and John burst into a fit of laughter.

 

When Sherlock’s look back was pure ice, John laughed even harder. A soft “ _hmph_ ” but no further comment, and John thought maybe that would be the end of it. 

 

+

 

He was wrong. 

 

The next time Greg came by their flat, John was at the living room desk eating an egg on toast, and had not expected the visit. 

 

“Has something come up?” John asked, mid-chew. 

 

“Ah, no, no,” Greg said, looking toward the armchairs. “Is Sherlock not around? He texted me to come.” 

 

John followed Greg’s line of sight, then immediately returned to focusing on his fork. He did not spare a second glance for the bat—who  _ was _ Sherlock—lying on top of the Union Jack pillow, which Greg couldn’t see over the arm of the chair.

 

“He must have forgotten and gone right back to sleep,” John said, wondering if he would need to sneak Sherlock out of the living room. 

 

When Greg passed the threshold of the door, John stood from his seat, contemplating how he might scoop Sherlock up with his hands behind his back. 

 

That intent was, however, all dashed to pieces when Sherlock flung himself off the chair and into the air. Greg took an alarmed step back, but was far too slow to outmaneuver a bat flying towards his torso. 

 

Greg’s shoulder crashed into the doorframe behind him as Sherlock hit him square in the chest, and with tiny determined fingers, snuck into his inner coat pocket.

 

“What the bleeding  _ Christ _ —”

 

“Here, I’ll—” 

 

John rushed over, and with a gentleness he didn’t entirely feel at the moment, extracted a squirming Sherlock from Greg’s person. Sherlock took off not a moment later, flying around the corner to the kitchen, and presumably heading down the hall. 

 

“Are you—are you going to go after it?” Greg asked, a bit winded. 

 

“Uh, no, that’s all right,” John said, looking down the hallway. “I’ll deal with it later.”

 

“What’s with you and bats?” Greg sounded concerned, as if asking after an eccentric hobby. “Are they just always in this flat? Or was that the same bat as before? It looked a bit different.”  

 

John rubbed at his forehead, resisting the temptation to look down the hallway after Sherlock. “Uh, yeah, yeah. Awful problem keeping them out. Must be a hole in the attic or something.”

 

Greg’s forehead was lined with confusion. “Does this place even have an attic?”

 

“Anyway, Greg,” John said, one hand on Greg’s shoulder, pushing him out. “Thanks for stopping by. I can’t imagine why Sherlock said for you to come over—”

 

Greg took the hint, likely wanting to avoid another bat encounter, and left in a hurry. 

 

Sherlock appeared two minutes later in a dressing gown and pajama pants, yawning, as if he had just woken up. He walked over to the table John had been eating at, and pushed away the plate to start reading the paper. 

 

“What was that about?” John wanted to be annoyed, but instead found himself repressing an oncoming fit of giggles. 

 

“What was what about?” Sherlock refused to look at him, standing while flipping through the pages. Far too fast to be reading anything. 

 

“Oh my God,” John said, speaking to Sherlock’s back. “Is this really because I picked up a bat and put it in my pocket? You called Greg over here for that?” 

 

“I don’t even know who that is.” The next section of the paper was flipped to. Sports, John could see from the side, which Sherlock definitely had no interest in. 

 

John smiled, helpless with it. Sherlock was truly hilarious sometimes, without meaning to be. John walked up behind him, proceeding with caution, till he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s middle. 

 

Sherlock turned the next page of the paper with particular aggression, but did after a moment, relax back into John’s hold. John nosed the curl at Sherlock’s nape, and pressed a kiss to the skin beneath. 

 

“Even Lestrade noticed the other bat didn’t look like me,” Sherlock muttered. 

 

“I’m sorry for being so unobservant,” John said, giving Sherlock a squeeze. “But I didn’t sing  _ This Charming Bat  _ for the other one.” 

 

Sherlock turned within the circle of his arms. “I didn’t think you had.”

 

“It was a bat, Sherlock,” John thought he might point out. “You are very much a person.” 

 

Sherlock’s eyes slid to the left. “I know that.”

 

“Good.” And with a smile, John started to sing, “ _ This cha-aa-arming bat _ …” 

 

Sherlock scowled, but when John snuck a kiss, the pout kissed back.  

 

Only something nagged at the back of John’s mind, something about Sherlock’s look when John had said the bat was a bat. It hadn’t had the blue neck fur. It had been larger—

 

“Oh, Jesus.” That stopped the kissing. Sherlock raised a ‘ _ this better be good’  _ brow. 

 

“The other bat,” John said, with absolute, horrified confidence, “was Mycroft.” 

 

Sherlock nodded once, slowly. “I was waiting for you to catch on. How many bats do you think get in here?” 

 

John wasn’t listening. “I put Mycroft. In my pocket.”

 

“Yep.” Sherlock popped the ‘p’, as he always did when he was annoying. “To his horror, of course. He might just rethink spying on us, or at least like that.”  

 

“Well.” John attempted to keep a straight face. He failed. “It’s now a very good thing I didn’t sing  _ This Charming Bat. _ ” 

 

A playful look of disgust, and John was back into Sherlock’s good graces again. 

 

+

  
  


He was an idiot for not thinking of it sooner, but it did follow that if Sherlock could turn into a bat, then his entire family was able to as well. John had never really considered it before. Sherlock was so extraordinary in every regard that despite knowledge to the contrary, a part of John believed he had sprung up from the ground one day, fully formed. In his defence, John felt this was just as plausible as the mythical creature thing, and he had never met Sherlock’s parents. But now, John’s curiosity had been piqued. Sherlock had a living family that John knew nothing about, besides that they had obviously spoiled their youngest, and drank blood from each other. 

 

What were his mum and dad like, exactly? Since John had first discovered his condition, Sherlock had never discussed his family. Even after his interrogation in the days after, John had only scratched the surface of all there was to know about Sherlock. Which didn’t sit quite right. Even before they were together, Sherlock had plumbed the depths of all there was to know about John Watson. John was at a distinct disadvantage. He’d have to do something to rectify that. 

 

“So, your parents. Where do they live?” 

 

Sherlock looked at him askance. “John,” he whispered, “we’re crouched behind a crate at a dockyard, waiting for our marks to make a move, and you want to ask about my parents?” 

 

John pulled the zipper up on his jacket. It was a bit chilly, and they’d been stuck there for about fifteen minutes. “Yep.” When the furrow in Sherlock’s brow only deepened, “Well, when else? Look, there’s not much else going on at the moment.” 

 

Though still appearing puzzled, Sherlock said, “They live outside the city.”

 

“Ah, right. Country types. Easier to fly around?” 

 

“What? Oh, you mean—yes, I suppose.” Sherlock had shifted his entire focus from over the top of the crate to John. In a rather icy voice, “If you have more questions about my background, John, do just ask directly.” 

 

“Okay. All right. I was just wondering. About them.” He cleared his throat. Was it strange that Sherlock never mentioned them, or suggested going for a visit? Did Sherlock think it was still too soon for him to be meeting the parents? John had thought it would be natural at this point. 

 

And now he was over-analysing.  

 

Though it was too dark for John to see Sherlock’s expression, he could see Sherlock was staring at him, and knew with a degree of confidence that Sherlock was deducing him within an inch of his life. Sherlock would somehow read in his jawline that he was after an introduction, and was now nervous about Sherlock thinking they weren’t serious enough. 

 

John hadn’t even known that was his own angle before initiating the conversation. 

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted from doing so by a clang in the distance. With a nod between them, they were both on their feet and racing across the dock, the conversation over. 

 

Later, when they each had an assailant behind them holding a crowbar across their jugulars, John supposed they should have been more focused on their stakeout. Allowing them to get snuck up behind might have been a little bit on him. As his windpipe was further constricted, John released his grip on the crowbar to flap his hands in their secret signal (two hands pressed together at the wrist with waving fingers) as a suggestion. 

 

Sherlock, however, did not take it. 

 

“What the hell is he doing with his hands?” was the last thing John heard before his airway was effectively closed off. 

 

When John returned to consciousness, he was half-crumpled onto the dock. The man who had been choking him had also dropped him, and the man who had been choking Sherlock was screaming while a bat flapped its wings in his face. 

 

Sherlock must have waited for the opportune time to change as John’s assailant attempted to ask, “Where the hell did that come from?” over his partner’s yelling.  

 

John wondered how his attacker had missed it, and what it must have seemed like to the other one who had been holding onto Sherlock. Still woozy from his fall, John’s mind conjured the image of a criminal shrieking as he realized he was holding onto a Belstaff full of bats. 

 

But that wasn’t right. Sherlock transformed clothes and all, and only into the one bat. 

 

Focussing, John wrapped his hands around the ankle of the man who had choked him, and pulled. After a brief tussle, John knocked the screaming man out with the other one’s crowbar. Praying for a convenient concussion to explain the bat-to-man thing, John proceeded to make a run for it. The sound of beating wings followed after him.

  
  


+

  
  


John didn’t broach the subject again until the next time the bat made an appearance. There was an accident with a piece of toast, and as John was about to wash honey out of Sherlock’s fur, he saw his chance. Sherlock was always at his most acquiescent after John had coddled him a little. 

 

“I know you can’t respond right now,” John began, lowering Sherlock into a teacup filled with warm, sudsy water, “but I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind meeting your parents sometime. Seeing as we’re, uh—together, and all that.”

 

Sherlock, who normally splashed all over the place, was still. John couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t want to get water in his ears this time, or if he had gone into shock. 

 

“Anyway, it doesn’t need to be soon, or ever, even. You don’t even have to answer me. That’s why I asked now.” 

 

John got down to business after that, rubbing at the sticky spot of the fur with a toothbrush, the only implement they had that was small enough to use as a scrubber. While John wasn’t an expert in bat expressions, he was an expert in Sherlock. This one-way conversation was not going well. 

 

When Sherlock’s ears flicked whenever water got near them, John broke the silence. 

 

“We should get you a shower cap.” He attempted to make it through the suggestion without giggling at the image. He was somewhat successful. “One of those pink ones with dots on it, you know? Like the ones Mrs Hudson wears when she doesn’t want her hair to frizz.” 

 

Sherlock didn’t manage to bite him, but it was a close thing. 

  
  


+

  
  


John assumed nothing would come of it, but by the next weekend, Sherlock had packed them both a bag and rented a car. Sherlock did have a way of always surprising him. 

 

No explanation, of course, but John easily inferred where they were going. John would have been pleased as punch with this development, if not for the fact that Sherlock drummed his fingers against the wheel at least eighty times every five minutes, and looked at John and then looked away when caught at least three times an hour. John was counting. 

 

So, Sherlock was nervous. (Great deduction, John). But why? Were his parents disapproving of their relationship? He wasn’t one of them, and this was about to play out like some inter-special version of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? 

 

That was John’s best guess, anyway, but it got crossed right out the moment the Holmes’ door swung open. 

 

Life had led John to believe that visiting a commune of vampires would not involve opens arms, pecks on the cheek, the kettle already on, and “oh, please, John, call me Mummy,” but in a way it made sense that Sherlock’s family was so extraordinary that, of course, they were in fact ordinary. Sherlock’s parents were downright relentless in their pleasantness towards him, to a degree that John had never experienced directed at him before in his life. 

 

As he was ushered down the front hallway into the kitchen, John kept sneaking backward glances at Sherlock. He seemed unsurprised by their welcome, but still as nervous as before, judging by his fingers tapping against his side within his coat pocket (a tell John knew how to spot). 

 

Did his parents maybe not know they were together…? Or maybe they were faking their warm reception, and Sherlock could tell? 

 

But when John spilled coffee beans two seconds after entering the kitchen by hitting the open bag on the counter with a clumsy elbow, there wasn’t even a twinge of annoyance in either of the either of their faces. 

 

“Sorry,” John said, tipping the bag back over. It was a full bag, just opened, which must have been bought for his visit, though Mr Holmes was pouring boiling water into a teapot for him. Sherlock must have let them know that John sometimes liked coffee in the morning, and tea at every other time. 

 

Before he could clean up the spill, Mrs Holmes rushed forward, waving her hand. “Oh, let me just get that.” 

 

John stepped aside, about to offer to assist, but Mrs Holmes had no intention of scooping up the beans just yet. She stood over the counter, one finger extended, and roaming above each bean. Her mouth was moving, forming silent words. 

 

John looked to Sherlock, and when he received a blank stare, to Mr Holmes, for cues on how to proceed. Mr Holmes walked over, now carrying a tray holding the teapot, a single tea cup, and a straw. 

 

Leaning in towards him, Mr Holmes whispered, “Just leave her to it. She’ll have to count all of them, you know.” 

 

Sherlock mumbled beneath of his breath, too low for John’s hearing to catch. Mr Holmes tsked at him. 

 

“Don’t deny your mother her simple pleasures,” he said, before heading into the living room. “Gives her something to do.” 

 

John followed after him, and was set up in a chair with the tea on the side table while Mr Holmes sat across. Sherlock hung about in the doorway, still brooding over something. John continued to try to catch his eye, and failed. 

 

“Sherlock, why don’t you take your bags upstairs?” Mr Holmes suggested, perhaps also noticing Sherlock’s nervous energy. It was a kindness, as Sherlock certainly couldn’t seem to get away fast enough. John watched him leave in confusion, and with a bit of worry. 

 

Turning back, Mr Holmes was smiling at him, pleasantly. John took a sip of tea. That, at least, was normal. John didn’t question the bendy straw. Sherlock had to have picked up that habit somewhere, and clearly it had been at home. 

 

“So, Sherlock says you might have a few questions for us,” Mr Holmes said. 

 

“Did he?” John looked back at the doorway. Was that why he had wanted to leave them alone? 

 

From the kitchen, John could hear Mrs Holmes murmuring, “Thirty-one, thirty—”

 

“We’re all a bit like that,” Mr Holmes said, as if they were two conspirators. “Some of us are more prone to arithmomania than others. My wife in particular. She was always keen on mathematics.” 

 

“You mean,” John said, working through that bit of information, “all vampires have OCD?”

 

Mr Holmes laughed. “We’ve always been natural counters, and very particular about sorts of things. Those myths died out, I suppose.” 

 

John thought he might have seen a children’s puppet show on a similar subject, but decided it would be best not to say so.

 

“Forty-nine!” was called from the kitchen, and then ‘Mummy’ appeared, bustling in to perch on the arm of her husband’s chair. “John, I hope we made the tea correctly. Sherlock said you’d like that.”

 

“Did he?” John couldn’t seem to stop being surprised by Sherlock discussing him with his parents, considering Sherlock hadn’t ever discussed his parents with John. After a moment, “Oh, yes. The tea is lovely. Thanks.”

 

Silence settled. Two parents smiled at him from their shared chair. John took another sip. 

 

Jokingly, John asked, “Don’t suppose you have any baby photos to show me?”

 

Mr Holmes chuckled. “I wish! But we try not to keep too much evidence of our… nature.”

 

John had up until that moment assumed Sherlock had always looked human. He deposited his tea cup onto the side table without looking. “What do you mean?”

 

Mr and Mrs Holmes shared a glance. “Our first form isn’t quite developed. We need a bit of time after birth, John, to firm up.”

 

John couldn’t tell if his heart skipped a beat, or was now moving in double time. “What do you come out as, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

 

Another look exchanged between them. 

 

_ Bats,  _ John thought.  _ It’s going to be bats, isn’t it.  _

 

“All nose I’m afraid,” Mr Holmes at last replied, making an exaggerated motion in front of his own nose, which John supposed was meant to demonstrate the general shape. “Well, snout rather. A bag of blood with a nose to sip through.” 

 

John had no visual. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this description. He didn’t realize they could sip through their nostrils, but supposed it made sense if he didn’t think about it for too long. Human babies were maybe a bit strange from a non-human perspective, he reminded himself, and if Sherlock had once looked like that, in a way, the idea of it was cute. 

 

“After a month or so,” Mrs Holmes picked up, “that’s when the bones come in and we start looking a bit more cooked! And then we’re right as rain, toddlers in the way you’d think of them.”

 

“Still can’t show them off even then, though! The teeth come in immediately. And teeth in a newborn — ” 

 

“ —are unsettling for humans, we gather.”

 

John looked back and forth as they lobbed the conversation about between them like a tennis ball. They were more than capable of finishing each other's thoughts and sentences. John was at once quite glad he had convinced Sherlock that they come. 

 

“So, you’re saying,” John said, holding one finger aloft, “that Sherlock came out like one of those mini-bags he’s always sipping on.”

 

The Holmeses seemed to find this delightful. They laughed for some time, but didn’t answer his question. John changed the subject. 

 

“Is it hard?” he asked, thinking of Sherlock’s life in London, and how they chose to live out a ways. “I mean, hiding yourselves.” Not that they were hidden, but they’d had to take care with the children. 

 

“Not really. We live like you lot now, and it’s much easier this way. Don’t get blamed for things like in the old days.”

 

Both Sherlock’s parents at once mentioned something about the bubonic plague, but as they spoke at the same time, John couldn’t make heads or tails of it. 

 

“Anything else, John?” Mrs Holmes prompted. “Sherlock told us you’d be curious, so just ask away. We won’t mind.” 

 

John thought he had already covered every myth he knew of with Sherlock, but the Holmes’ living room faced the west, and the sun pouring in through uncurtained windows reminded him of one more. 

 

“Sunlight,” John said. “Where did that come from? I mean, you don’t seem to mind.” 

 

“Oh, that’s quite modern,” Mrs Holmes said. In a whisper, “A government conspiracy, that one.” 

 

Both of them began speaking at once — more conspiracy theories, something about Americans? — and after that, John lost track of it. They continued bickering amongst each other, and after several minutes of it, John stood from his chair, unnoticed, and went to find Sherlock. 

 

And nearly ran smack into him outside in the hallway, where he had obviously been standing listening the entire time. Their bags sat a few feet behind him, unattended, still in the foyer. 

 

“Sherlock.” John raised his brows at the bags. “Why didn’t you just come back in?”

 

Sherlock’s hands were clasped behind his back, and his coat was still on. “Just about to. Shall we?”

 

John gripped his forearm, and pulled him further into the house, away from the living room. 

 

“You didn’t want to me to meet your parents, except then you brought me here and told them I would be asking questions. But now you’re acting like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. What the hell is going on?” 

 

Sherlock was looking anywhere but at him, and John recalled the image of a little mini-bag with a nose for drinking. He reached out, and rubbed both of Sherlock’s Belstaff covered arms. 

 

“So, you weren’t born the most human looking. You apparently firmed up quick enough.” 

 

Sherlock still didn’t look convinced, but John at least now knew he’d been right. This was the source of Sherlock’s nerves: John’s sudden, renewed curiosity. 

 

“Is that what you were all worried about? There’s going to be a point where this is all too weird for me?” John laughed. “Because we passed that point a long time ago.”

 

Sherlock’s frown was so deep, a dimple formed in his chin. “I wasn’t ‘all worried.’” 

 

Right. So they wouldn’t dwell on that. Time to assuage those fears, though, all the same. 

 

“Sherlock, I’m glad you brought me. I’ve learned lots of interesting things. Like your people’s insatiable love of counting. Though, of course, you don’t do that.” 

 

Sherlock eyed him. “No, of course not .” 

 

“Except,” John continued, “that would explain why you like touching our door knocker  three times and turning it to the side — ”

 

“I do not — ”

 

“ And when you count the number of times I breathe, and blink — ”

 

“That’s just romantic.” 

 

John blinked. Three times, to be exact, and breathed in five. “You know what, it is. For you.” 

 

For the first time since the beginning of their trip, Sherlock offered a nervous smile. With a look towards the living room, John shifted onto his toes, and kissed it. 

 

“One,” John counted, drawing back, and leaning in for another. “Two — ”

 

“John, really — ”

 

“Three!” 

 

And on the count of three, Sherlock giggled, and the front door opened. 

 

To reveal Mycroft Holmes. At the sight of them pressed chest to chest in his parents’ foyer, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. 

 

“Sherlock, don’t you do enough of that at home?” 

 

When John attempted to create distance between them, Sherlock’s hands clamped around his forearms. Scowling, he asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

 

“I was  _ invited _ .” Mycroft turned to John, as if only just seeing him standing next to Sherlock. “John,” he acknowledged, with a nod in his direction. 

 

John nodded back. Awkward. “Mycroft. Uh. Sorry about putting you in my pocket the last time.” 

 

Mycroft had obviously been hoping John would not address that situation. “No hard feelings,” he said, already looking away.  

 

“Except maybe don’t spy on us,” John said, remembering that he was actually pissed off about that, “as a bat, or otherwise, and maybe that won’t happen again.” 

 

Mycroft raised his brows, and continued into the living room where his parents were still speaking over each other.

 

“I make no promises,” he said, tossed over his shoulder. 

 

John caught Sherlock’s eye.  _ Can you believe him?  _ was spoken between them in a single look. 

 

Sherlock hummed. “Maybe my brother would like a taste of his own medicine,” he said, mouth turning up at the corners. John did love when he looked mischievous like that, assuming it wasn’t about to be directed at him. 

 

“What are you going to do?” he asked, sounding too fond, as always. 

 

Sherlock only winked, and strode into the living room. 

 

John could gather from Mycroft’s, “Really, Sherlock,” exactly what he had done the moment he was in the room. 

 

“You know two can play this game, brother mine,” followed by the sound of flapping wings. 

 

“I wish you two wouldn’t be so childish,” Mrs Holmes said. “Don’t make us break this up like we used to.” 

 

“Oh, dear, we haven’t done that in ages.” Mr Holmes laughed, delighted at the prospect. “Oh, this’ll be fun.” 

 

By the time John found the strength to walk to the living room entrance, there was a brood of bats in the room, two of them flying after each other while another attempted to get in between. The fourth bat flew around carelessly, having a wonderful time as he clearly hadn’t indulged in ages. 

 

John sighed. While four bats flew about overhead, he walked over to his chair from earlier. His tea on the side table had stopped steaming, and he slipped the kindly provided straw into the cup, giving it a bit of a stir. 

 

This was his life now. And, on that note, he took a sip. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bob sincerelywrong has actually made a little Sherlock bat with a polka dot shower cap I just wanted y'all to know he has one of those so don't worry

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] An Acquired Taste](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6847447) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil), [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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